











m 




« 







CONTENTS. 




CHAPTER I. 

HOW MESSIRE JEHAN FROTSSARD WAS INFORMED OF THE HISTORY WHICH WE 
ARE ABOUT TO RELATE, 

CHAPTER II. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON, ON THE ROAD BETWEEN PINCIIEL AND 
COIMBRA MET A MOOR OF WHOM HE ASKED THE WAY, AND WHO 
PASSED ON WITHOUT REPLY, 

CHAPTER III. 

HOW WITHOUT THE MOOR’S AID, THE KNIGHT, AGENOR DE MAULEON, FOUND 
COIMBRA AND THE PALACE OF DON FREDERICK, GRAND MASTER OF ST. 
JAGO, 

CHAPTER IV. 

HOW MUSARON PERCEIVED THAT THE MOOR SPOKE TO HIS LITTER, AND THAT 
THE LITTER REPLIED, 


CHAPTER V. 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RIVER, 


CHAPTER VI. 

HOW MOTHRIL ANTICIPATED THE GRAND MASTER WITH THE KING, DON 
PEDRO, OF CASTILE, 

CHAPTER VII. 

HOW THE MOOR RELATED WHAT HAD PASSED TO THE KING, DON PEDRO, 

CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THE GRAND MASTER ENTERED THE ALCAZAR OF SEVILLE, WHERE THE 
KING, DON PEDRO, WAS WAITING FOR HIM, 

CHAPTER IX. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON RECEIVED THE LETTER WHICH HE HAD 
COME IN QUEST OF, 


CHAPTER X. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON ENTERED THE CASTLE OF MEDINA SIDONIA, 

09) 


PAGE. 

25 

32 

86 

42 

50 

54 

58 

Cl 

C4 

63 


20 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER XI. 


PAGE 





HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON WAS CHARGED BY BLANCHE OF BOURBON TO 

DELIVER A RING TO THE QUEEN OF FRANCE, HER SISTER, . . .69 


CHAPTER XII. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON LEFT FOR FRANCE, AND WHAT HAPPENED 

TO HIM ON THE ROAD, 12 


CHAPTER XIII. 

HOW THE KNIGHT OF ARRAGON PURCHASED HIS RANSOM FOR TEN THOUSAND 

GOLDEN CROWNS, 11 

CHAPTER XIY. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON DELIVERED TO KING CHARLES V. THE RING 

OF HIS SISTER-IN-LAW, QUEEN BLANCHE OF CASTILE, . . . .79 

CHAPTER XY. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON RETURNED TO THE CAPTAIN, HUGH DE CAV- 

ERLEY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED, . ^ . . . . . .86 

CHAPTER XYI. 

HOW THE CHIEFS OF THE GREAT COMPANIES PROMISED MESSTRE BERTRAND 
DUGUESCL1N TO FOLLOW HIM TO THE END OF THE WORLD, IF HIS 
GOOD PLEASURE WERE TO LEAD THEM THERE, 89 

CHAPTER XYII. 

HOW AGENOR FOUND HER WHOM HE WAS SEEKING, AND PRINCE HENRY HIM . 

WHOM HE WAS NOT LOOKING FOR, . . . . . .92 

CHAPTER XYI 1 1. 


THE BLOODHOUND, . . , .95 

CHAPTER XIX. 

LOVE, . * . 98 


CHAPTER XX. 

A WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MESSIRE BERTRAND DUGUESCLIN WAS A 

NO LESS GOOD ARITHMETICIAN THAN A GREAT GENERAL, . . . 100 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN WHICH A P'^PE WILL BE SEEN TO PAY THE EXPENSES OF AN EXCOMMU- 
NICATION, 102 

CHAPTER XXII. 

HOW THE POPE’S LEGATE CAME TO THE CAMP OF THE ADVENTURERS, AND 

HOW HE WAS RECEIVED THERE, 105 


CONTENTS 


21 


PAGE. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOW HIS HOLINESS, POPE URBAN V., AT LAST DECIDED TO PAY THE CRUSADE 

AND BLESS THE CRUSADERS, 108 

CHAPTER XXIA, 

HOW MESSIRE HUGH DE CAYERLEY MISSED GAINING A HUNDRED THOUSAND 

GOLDEN CROWNS, .111 

CHAPTER XXY. 

IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE SEQUEL AND THE EXPLANATION OF THAT 

WHICH PRECEDES, 114 

CHAPTER XXYI. 

THE WILD BOAR TAKEN IN THE NET, 118 

CHAPTER XXYII. 

THE POLICY OF MESSIRE BERTRAND DUGUESCLIN, 120 

CHAPTER XXYI II. 

THE MESSENGER, 123 

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE CORONATION, 125 

CHAPTER XXX. 

HOW DON PEDRO ON HIS RETURN REMARKED THE LETTER, AND WHAT FOL- 
LOWED THEREUPON, 131 

CHAPTER XXXI. 

HOW MOTHRIL WAS NAMED CHIEF OF THE MOORISH TRIBES, AND MINISTER 

OF THE KING DON PEDRO, . . . . . . . . . 133 

^ 4 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN AGENOR AND MUSARON, AS THEY JOURNEYED IN 

THE SIERRA D’ARCAENA, 135 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HOW MUSARON FOUND A GROTTO, AND WHAT THERE WAS IN THAT GROTTO, . 138 

CHAPTER XXX I Y. 

THE GIPSIES, 139 

CHAPTER XXXY. 

THE QUEEN OF THE GIPSIES, 141 


22 


CONTENTS. 


PAttB. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

HOW AGENOR AND THE FAIR UNKNOWN JOURNEYED TOGETHER, AND OF THE 

THINGS THEY SAID ON THE WAY, . . . . ' . . . 143 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE VARLET, 145 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

UHE ORANGE BRANCH, . . . 147 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

I 

THE AUDIENCE, 149 

CHAPTER XL. 

THE RENDEZVOUS, 151 

CHAPTER XLL 

THE INTERVIEW, 155 

CHAPTER XLII. 

THE PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE, 157 

CHAPTER XLI1I. 

THE BATTLE, 159 

CHAPTER XL IV. 

AFTER THE BATTLE, .161 

CHAPTER XLV. 

FEMALE PLOTTING, 164 

CHAPTER XL VI. 

THE TRUCE, 169 

CHAPTER XL VII. 

THE JOURNEY, . . . 171 

CHAPTER XL VIII. 

MADAME TIPHAINE RAGUENEL, - * . .172 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE MESSENGER. 173 

CHAPTER L. 

THE TWO MESSAGES, 174 


CONTENTS, 


23 


PAGE. 

CHAPTER LI. 

THE RETURN, 116 

CHAPTER LII. 

RIANZARES, .117 

CHAPTER LIII. 

GILDAZ, 178 

CHAPTER LIY. 

OF THE MISSION OF HAFIZ, AND HOW HE FULFILLED IT, . . * .179 

CHAPTER LY. 

HOW HAFIZ LED ASTRAY HIS TRAVELLING COMPANIONS, . . . .182 

CHAPTER LYI. 

THE PATRIO OF THE SUMMER PALACE, .183 

CHAPTER LYII. 

EXPLANATION, 186 

CHAPTER LYIII. 

maria’s ring and aissa’s poignard, 188 

r 

CHAPTER LIX. 

THE PRISON OF THE GOOD CONSTABLE, 190 

CHAPTER LX. 

THE RANSOM, 192 

CHAPTER LXI. 


HOW, INSTEAD OF RESTORING A PRISONER, THE GOVERNOR LIBERATED A 


WHOLE ARMY, 193 

CHAPTER LXII. 

THE POLICY OF MUSARON, 195 

CHAPTER LXIII. 

HOW THE CRIME OF MOTHRIL HAPPILY SUCCEEDED, 196 

CHAPTER LXIY. 

HOW AGENOR DISCOVERED THAT HE HAD ARRIVED TOO LATE, . . .198 


24 


CONTENTS 


PAGE. 

CHAPTER LXY. 

THE PILGRIMS, 200 

CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE CAVERN OP MONTIEL, * 204 

• / ' \ • 

CHAPTER LXYII. 

HOW CAVERLEY LOST HIS PURSE AND AGENOR HIS SWORD, .... 206 

CHAPTER LXYIII. 

HAFIZ, 208 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

PREPARATIONS, 209 

rT 4 

CHAPTER LXX. 

210 

CHAPTER LXXI. 

AISSA, . 213 

CHAPTER LXXII. 

THE RUSE OF THE VANQUISHED, 218 

CHAPTER LXXIII. 

THE ESCAPE, 220 

CHAPTER LXXIY. 

DIFFICULTY, * 221 

CHAPTER LXXY. 

THE DIPLOMACY OF LOVE, 223 

CHAPTER LXXYI. 

WHAT THEY SAW IN THE TENT OF THE BEGUE DE VILAINES, . . . 224 

CHAPTER LXXYII. 

THE RESOLUTION OF THE MOOR, 226 

CHAPTER LXXYIII. 

THE HEAD AND THE HAND, 228 

EPILOGUE, 229 


THE IRON HAND; 

OR, THE 

KNIGHT OF MAUL^ON. 



CHAPTER 1 

HOW MESSIRE JEBAN FROI3SARD WAS INFORMED 
OF THE HISTORY WHICH WE ARE ABOUT TO 
RELATE. 

The traveller of the present day who passes 
through that part of the Bigorre which lies 
between the sources of the Gers and the Adour, 
and now constitutes the department of the Higher 
Pyrenees, has a choice of two roads to go from 
Tournai to Tarbes; one quite recently constructed, 


ftnd which crosses the plain, will take him in two 
hours to the ancient capital of the counts of 
Bigorre; the other which follows the mountain, 
and which is the remnant of an old Roman road, 
will take him a circuit of nine leagues. But this 
increase in his journey and in his fatigues will be 
amply compensated by the beautiful country 
which he traverses, by the view of the magnificent 
foreground offered by Bagneres, Montgaillard, 
and Lourdes, and by the horizon like a blue 
battlement formed by the mighty Pyrenees, in ih# 
midst of which, white with snow, springs up the 

( 25 ) 


26 


THE TRON HAND; OR. THE KNTOHT OF MAULEON. 


graceful Pit du Midi. This road is that of 
artists, poets, and antiquaries. It is therefore that 
on which we will beg our reader to cast his eyes. 

In the first days of the month of March, 1338, 
about the commencement of the reign of Charles 
VI. j tnat is to say, when all those castles now 
levelled with the ground, uplifted the summit of 
their towers above the tops of the loftiest oaks, 
and the haughtiest pines, when those men of iron 
armour and hearts of steel, called Olivier de 
Clisson, Bertrand du Guesclin, and the Captal de 
Buch, had but just laid down in their Homeric 
tombs, after having began that great Iliad of 
which a shepherdess* was to wind up the close, two 
men rode on horseback along that narrow and 
rugged road which then formed the only communi- 
cation between the two principal cities of the south. 

They were followed by two valets, who, like 
themselves, were on horseback. 

The two masters appeared to be of about the 
same age that is, from fifty-five to fifty-eight 
years. But there, all similarity ceased; for the 
great difference which existed between their cos- 
tumes indicated that they followed different pro- 
fessions. 

One who, from habit, no doubt, took the lead by 
half a horse’s length, was clothed in a velvet sur- 
coat, which had been crimson, but of which not 
only the gloss but the colour had changed, from 
the sun and rain to which it had so long been ex- 
posed, since its master first put it on. Through 
the openings of the surcoat passed out two ner- 
vous arms, covered with sleeves of buff leather, 
and making part of a doublet which had formerly 
been yellow, but which like the surcoat had lost 
its first gloss, not through exposure to the elements, 
but through rubbing against the cuirass to which it 
was evidently intended to serve as a lining. A 
helmet of the kind called basnets hanging for the 
moment, no doubt on account of the heat, to the 
horseman’s saddlebow', allowed his bare head to be 
seen. It was bald at the top, but shaded on the 
temples and behind by falling locks of grey hair, 
which harmonised with moustaches darker than 
the hair, as is almost always seen in men who 
have undergone great labours, and a beard of the 
same colour as the moustaches, cut square, and 
falling over a steel gorget, the only part of defen- 
sive armour which the horseman had kept. As 
to his offensive weapons, they consisted of a long 
sword suspended by a broad leather belt, and by a 
little axe ending in a triangular blade fitted to 
serve alike with edge and point. This weapon 
was fastened to the right side of the saddlebow, 
so as to balance the helmet hanging to the left. 

The second master ; that is, the one who went a 
little in rear of the first, had on the other hand 
nothing warlike, either in his bearing or vesture. 
He was dressed in a long black gown, at the gir- 
dle of which, instead of sword or poinard, hung 
a shagreen inkstand, such as scholars and students 
then carried with them; his head, with sparkling 
and intelligent eyes, bushy eyebrows, a nose 
rounded at the tip, lips a little thick, hair spare 
and short, and bare of beard or moustache, was 
covered with a hood, as magistrates, clerks, and 
persons of the graver professions, then generally 
wore. From his pockets protruded rolls of parch- 
ment written over in that fine and close hand 
usual with those who write much. His horse 
even seemed to partake the pacific disposition of 
its rider, and with modest mien and subdued 
amble, its heaf inclined earth wards formed a con- 

* Referring to Jeanne d’Arc, who tended cattle.— 
Trwislator. 


trast with the high step, foaming nostrils, and 
capricious neighings of the war-charger, which, as 
we have said, proud of its superiority, seemed to 
arrogate a precedence. 

The two servants who followed exhibited the 
same opposition of character which prevailed be- 
tween their masters. One was dressed in green 
cloth nearly after the manner of the English 
archers, bearing like them the bow slung, and the 
quiver on the right hand, while on the left, close 
to the thigh, hung a broad-bladed kind of dagger 
holding a mean between a knife and that terrible 
weapon then called a “bull’s tongue.” Behind 
him clattered, at every high step of his horse, the 
armour which the safety of the roads had allowed 
his master for an instant to lay aside. 

The other, dressed like his master in black, ap- 
peared by the manner in which his hair was cut, 
and by the kind of tonsure perceptible on the top 
of his head, when he lifted his black cap, to be- 
long to the lower class of the clergy. This 
opinion might be further confirmed by the sight 
of the missal which he held under his arm, and 
of which the silver corners and clasp of sufficiently 
skilful workmanship, remained brilliant in spite of 
the wear of the binding. 

All four then rode on, the masters reflecting, 
the valets chattering, till, on arriving at a wider 
space where the road diverged into three branches, 
the knight reined in, and signing to his com- 
panion to do the like, “ Look you,” said he, “ Maitre 
Jehan. Cast a glance round the neighbouring coun- 
try, and tell me what you think of it?” 

He to whom this invitation was addressed, cast 
his eyes in all directions, and as the country was 
entirely waste, and by the character of the ground 
adapted to an ambuscade — 

“ By my faith,” said he, “ Sir Espaing. this is a 
strange spot, and I declare, for my part, that I 
would not stop here even the time to say three 
Paters and three Aves , were I not in the company 
of a knight so renowned as yourself.” 

“ Thanks for the compliment, Sire Jehan,” said 
the knight, “ therein I recognise your customary 
courtesy; recollect now what you told me three 
days ago, as we came out of the town of Pamiers, 
regarding that famous skirmish between the Mon- 
gat of Saint Basile, and Ernauton de St. Colombe, 
at the Pas de Larre.” 

“Oh, yes, I recollect,” replied the churehma#; 
“ I told you to let me know when we came to the 
Pas de Larre, as I wished to see the spot which the 
death of so many brave men had made famous.” 

“ Well, messire, yofi see it.” 

“ I thought the Pas de Larre was in Bigorre.” 

“ It is so, messire, and we also, since we forded 
the small river of Lege. It is now about a quar- 
ter of an hour since we passed on our left, the 
road of Lourdes and the castle of Montgaillard ; 
below us you see the little village of Civitat, there 
is the wood of the Lord of Barbezan, and lower 
again you may see through the trees, the castle 
of Marcheras.” 

“Truly, Messire Espaing,” said the church- 
man ; “ you know my curiosity concerning stout 
deeds of arms, and how I write them down as fast 
as I see them, or hear them told, that their memory 
may not be lost; tell me, then, if you please, in 
detail, what happened on this spot?’* 

“ That is easy,” replied the knight. “ About 
1358 or 1359, thirty years ago, all the garrisons 
of the country were French, that of Lourdes ex- 
cepted. Now, this one made frequent sorties to 
revietual the town, carrying off all that it met with, 
and bearing all behind its walls, so that when it 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


27 


was known to hare taken ,ne field, all the ether 
garrisons sent out detachments also in chase, and 
when a rencontre took place, terrible combats 
w r ere waged, in which as fair deeds of arms wer< 
performed as ever adorned a set battle. One- 
day the Mongat of Saint Basile, who was so 
termed because he was used to disguise himself as 
a monk when he led an ambuscade, sallied frotn 
Lourdes with the Lord of Carnillac and about 
a hundred and twenty lances. The citadel was in 
want of victual, and a great expedition had 
been resolved on. They rode on then till at length, 
in a meadow, but a league from the town of Tou- 
louse, they found a herd of oxen which they drove 
off, and returned to the castle by the shortest road; 
but, instead of prudently following the road, they 
turned off to the right and the left, to carry off 
also a drove of pigs and a flock of sheep, which 
gave time for the rumour of the expedition to 
spread throughout the country. The first who 
learnt it, was a captain of Tarbes called Ernauton 
de Saint e Colombe. He left thereupon 'the care 
of his castle to a nephew of his, some say a bas- 
tard son, a young stripling of fifteen or sixteen, 
who had never yet borne hand in battle or skirmish. 
He hastened to apprise the Lord of Berroe, the 
Lord of Barbezan and all the squires of the 
Bigorre whom he could meet with, so that that 
very evening he found himself at the head of a 
troop about equal in strength to that of the Mongat 
of St. Basile, and to him was committed the entire 
command. 

“ Forthwith he sent his scouts through the 
country to learn by what road the garrison of 
Lourdes were to pass ; and when he knew that it 
was to cross the Pas de Larre, he resolved 
to wait for it there. Consequently, knowing the 
country thoroughly, and his horses being untired, 
while, on the other hand, those of the enemy had 
made a four days march ; he hastened to take 
post while the marauders halted about three 
leagues from the spot where he waited for them. 
As you have yourself said, the ground is fit for an 
ambuscade. The men of Lourdes, and the Mongat 
himself, hastened there unawares; and, as the 
flocks went first, these had already passed the spot 
whe^e we now are, when, from the two branching 
roads, one to the right, the other to the left, the 
troops of Ernauton de St. Colombe came on at the 
gallop, with loud shouts; but it found itself well 
met; the Mongat was not a man to fly, he made 
his troop halt and waited for the shock. It 
was tremendous, and such as might be looked 
for from the encounter of the first men at arms in 
the country; but what above all served to in- 
furiate the men of Lourdes was, that they were 
cut off from the droves, for w hich they had under- 
gone so much fatigue and braved so many dan- 
gers, and which they heard lowing, grunting, and 
bleating under the guidance of their enemies’ 
servants. These, thanks to the barrier interposed 
by their masters, had only had to fight herdsmen, 
who had not even resisted, for it mattered little 
to them, whether their cattle belonged to this side 
or that, since they no longer belonged to them- 
selves. 

“ They had thus a double motive to overthrow 
their enemies; first that of their own safety, 
and then that of returning in possession of their 
victual, of which they knew their comrades in 
the citadel stood so much in need. 

‘ k The first encounter took place at the lance’s 
point; but soon many of the lances were broken, 
and those who still retained them, finding a lance, 
in a space so shut in, but a sorry weapon, cast 


them away, and seized their axes, their swords, or 
their clubs, or any weapon which fell under their 
hand, and then began the true melee, so fiery, so 
stern, and so desperate, that no man would yield 
a step, and that even those who fell, strove still to 
die in advance, so that it might not be said that 
they had lost the field of battle; and thus they 
fought for three hours, so that, as if by a common 
understanding, those who were too much wmrn 
out withdrew, and went to sit down behind their 
companions, whether in the wood, the meadow, or 
the edge of the ditch, took off their helmets, 
wiped away their blood or sweat, breathed them- 
selves awhile, and then returned to the conflict more 
fierce than ever; so that, I do not think, there 
was ever battle more stoutly fought, both in as- 
sault an.d defence, since the famous Combat of 
the Thirty. 

“ During these three hours of hand to hand 
combat, chance so willed it, that the two leaders; 
that is, the Mongat of Saint Basile, and Ernauton 
de Sainte Colombe, had fought the one on the 
right, the other on the left. But both struck such 
strong and hearty blow's, that the crowd by de- 
grees opened before them, and they found them- 
selves at last face to face. As that w ; as what each 
of them wished, and as, since the beginning of the 
fight, they had not ceased defying each other, 
they shouted with joy as they met each other’s 
glance, and as if their followers had understood 
that every conflict would be eclipsed by theirs, 
they cleared off, yielded ground, and the general 
action ceased, to give scope to this one struggle. * 

“Ah!” said the churchman, interrupting the 
knight, with a sigh, “why v/as \ not there to se© 
such a jousting, which must have recalled those 
bright days of chivalry, now passed, alas! never to 
return?” 

“ The fact is, Jehan,” replied the w'arrior, that 
you would have seen a fine and rare sight. For 
the tw'o champions were men-at-arms, powerful in 
frame, and skilful in fence, mounted on strong and 
proud horses, which seemed as fiercely bent as 
their masters on rending each other to pieces; 
however, it was the horse of the Mongat de Sainte 
Basile which fell the first, being stretched dead on 
the spot by a blow with an axe, intended by Ernau- 
ton for its master. Rut the - Mongat was too 
skilful, however rapid the fall, not to find time to 
loose his feet from the stirrups, so that he was 
last down, not under his horse, but by his side, 
and stretching out his arm, he cut through the 
fore fetlock of Ernauton’s war-horse, which, neigh- 
ing with pain, staggered and fell on its fore-knees; 
Ernauton lost his vantage, and was in his turn 
forced to dismount. Scarcely was he down, when 
the Mongat rose to his feet, and the combat re- 
commenced. Ernauton striking with his axe, 
and the Mongat with his mace-at-arms. 

“ And it w as on this very spot, that this noble 
deed of arms took place?” said the churchman, 
his eye sparkling with ardour as if he saw the 
combat which he heard described. 

“ On this very spot, Messire Jehan. And ten 
times over have eye-witnesses told me, what I new 
tell you. Ernauton was at the spot where you 
now stand, and the Mongat where I am; and the 
Mongat pressed so hard on Ernauton, that this 
last, while still defending himself, was forced to 
give way: and, as he fought, fell back from the 
stone which is betw een your horse’s feet as far as 
that ditch, where doubtless he would have fallen 
backwards, whenayoungman who had arrived quite 
breathless during the combat, and who was look- 
ing tin from the other side of the ditch, seeing the 


28 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


good knight thus pressed, and perceiving that he | 
had exhausted his strength, made but one hound 
as far as where Ernauton stood, and taking the 
axe which he was about to let fall from his bands, 

4 Ah! good uncle,’ said he; ‘give me your axe for 
awhile, and leave matters to me.’ 

“ Ernauton asked nothing better; he let go the 
axe, and lay down on the borders of the ditch, 
when his valets ran to his help, and unlaced his 
armour, for he was ready to faint.” 

“But the young man,” said the ecclesiastic; 

“ the young man?” 

“ Well! the young man proved on that occasion 
that, bastard though he was termed, he had in his 
veins the true blood of his race, and that his uncle 
had done ill to shut him up in an old castle, 
instead ->F taking him with him; for scarcely had he 
axe in hand, than car .'less of having for his only 
covering, a cloth doublet, and on his head a velvet 
cap, while his enemy was cased in iron, he struck 
so hard a blow with the edge of his weapon on 
the top of his helmet that the vizor was cloven, 
and the Mongat quite stunned, staggered, and 
had almost fallen down. But he was too stout a 
man-at-arms to fall thus under a first blow. He 
rose again, raised in turn his mace, and struck at 
the youth, such a blow as would certainly have 
cloven his skull, had it reached him. But he, un- 
encumbered by the weight of armour, slipped aside, 
and then springing on his adversary with the 
lightness and agility of a young tiger, he caught 
in his arms the Mongat tired with so long a con- 
test, and bending him as the wind bends a tree, at 
last threw him down, while he called out — ‘ Sur- 
render, Mongat de Saint Basile, succoured or not 
succoured, otherwise you are a dead man.’ ” 

“And then he surrendered?” asked the church- 
man, who took so great an interest in the narra- 
tion that he seemed as it were to thrill with 
satisfaction through all his limbs. 

“ Not so,” replied Messire Espaing, “ but nobly 
and well replied — 

“ ‘ Surrender to a child! I should be ashamed; 
strike if you can.* 

“‘Well then! surrender not tome but to my 
uncle, Ernauton de Saint Colombe, who is a brave 
knight, and not a boy like me.’ 

“ ‘ Not more to your uncle than yourself,’ said 
the Mongat, in a low voice, ‘for if you had not 
come, your uncle would now lie where I do. Strike 
then — for myself, on no account will I surrender.’ 

“ ‘ In that case,’ said the young man, ‘ since you 
absolutely will not surrender, wait and we will see.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, let us see,’ said the Mongat, making an 
effort like the giant Enecladus when he wishes to 
shake off Etna; ‘let us see awhile.’ 

“ But it was in vain that he rallied all his strength, 
that he encircled the young man with his arms and 
legs, as with a double ring of iron, he could not 
make him lose his vantage. This last remained 
the victor, holding his adversary under him with 
one* hand, while with the other he drew from his 
belt a long thin-bladed knife, the point of which he 
slid under the gorget. At the same moment, a 
dull rattle was heard. The Mongat struggled., 
stiffened, rose up, but without shaking off the young 
man who still pressed to him and continued to push 
his knife; at last a froth of biood spouted through 
the vizor of the Mongat’s helmet and trickled down 
the face of his adversary. The almost super- 
human efforts of the fallen man revealed the con- 
vulsions of approaching death. But no more than 
had hitherto yielded, did the youth let him go; 
he appeared bound to all his movements. Like 
the serpent winding round the body of the victim 


whom it stifles, he rose up, relaxed, or stiffened as 
he did, trembled with his every tremor, and re- 
mained crouched and extended until the last 
tremor was extinct, and the rattle had died in a 
groan. 

“ Then he arose, wiping his face with the sleeve 
of his doublet, and with the other, shaking the 
little knife, which seemed but a child’s plaything, 
and which yet had but just put a man to so cruel 
a death.” 

“ God’s truth,” said the ecclesiastic, forgetting 
that his enthusiasm led him to swear, you will tell 
me the name of that young man, will you not, 
Sire Espaing de Lyon, so that I might write it 
down on my tablets, and endeavour to engrave it 
in the annals of history?” 

“ He was called the Bastard Agenor de Mau- 
leon,” replied the knight, “ and you may, as you 
say, write down that name at full length on your 
tablets, Messire Jehan; for it is that of a stoat 
man-at-arms who well deserves that honour.” 

“But,” said the abbot, “ without doubt he did 
not stop there; he must have done in his lifetime 
some other feats worthy to take place by that w ith 
which he begun.” 

“ Oh ! most certainly ; for three or four years 
afterwards he left for Spain, where he remai led 
for four or five years fighting against the M* ors 
and Saracens, and whence he returned with his 
right wrist cut off.” 

“Oh!” said the churchman, in a tone which 
showed the interest he took in the conqueror of the 
Mongat de Saint Basile; “that was indeed un- 
fortunate, since no doubt it must have compelled 
the brave knight to renounce the use of arms.” 

“Not so,” replied Messire Espaing de Lyon, “not 
so; you are, on the contrary, much mistaken, 
Messire Jehan; for instead of the hand he had lost, 
he made himself a hand of iron with which he 
bore a lance quite as well as w r ith a real hand. 
Besides that, he can, when it pleases him, wield 
with it an iron mace with which he strikes as it 
seems in such wise, that from his blow r s there is 
no recovery.” 

“ And,” asked the ecclesiastic, “ may I know on 
what occasion he lost that hand?” 

“Ah!" said Messire Espaing, “that is more 
than I can tell you, whatever wish I may feel to 
please you. For I do not personally know r tho 
brave knight of whom we speak, and I have evea 
been assured that those who know him are as 
ignorant on the subject as myself; he has never 
been willing to tell that part of his history to any- 
one.” 

“ Then,” said the churchman, ‘ I will in no wise 
speak of your bastard, Messire Espaing; for I do 
not wish that those who read the history which I 
am writing, should ask the same question as 
myself, without meeting any answer.” 

“ Nay,” said Messire Espaing, “ I will ask, I will 
try to learn; but begin in any case to mourn your 
loss, Messire Jehan; for I doubt you will never 
learn anything of what you wish to knows unless 
from himself, should you chance to meet him.” 

“ Is he then still alive ?” 

“ Certainly, and fighting more than ever.” 

“ With his iron hand?” 

“ With his iron hand.” 

“Ah!’ said Messire Jehan, “I think I w'ould 
give my abbey to meet that man, and get him to 
tell me his history; but at least finish yours, 
Messire Espaing, and tell me what became of the 
two parties, when the Mongat was dead?” 

“ The death of the Mongat ended the battle. 
What the knights wished for were the docks that 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


29 


had been carried off and they had them. Besides, 
the Monffet being dead, they knew that the famous 
and much-dreaded garrison of Lourdes was far less 
formidable, for it is often a single man who makes 
the strength of a garrison, or of an army. It 
was, therefore, agreed that each party should 
carry away its wounded and prisoners, and that the 
dead should be buried. They carried away, then, 
Ernauton de St. Colombe covered with bruises 
received in the fight; the dead were buried where 
we stand, on the spot our horses tread under foot. 
And that so brave a comrade as the Mongat might 
not be confounded with vulgar corpses, they 
hollowed a ditch on the other side of that great 
rock which you see about four steps from us, with 
a stone cross and his name upon it, so that pilgrims, 
travellers, and valiant knights might, as they 
passed, say a prayer for the repose of bis 
soul.” 

“ Let us go, then, towards this cross, Messire 
Espaing,” said the abbot; “ as for my part I shall 
be very willing to say there a Paternoster an Ave - 
Maria , and a De Profundis .” 

Then giving the example to the knight, the 
abbot signed to the attendants to come near, flung 
his horse’s bridk to his valet, and alighted with an 
impatience which showed that in such matters, the 
good chronicler was relieved of half the weight of 
years. 

Messire Espaing de Lyon did the same, and both 
went on foot to the spot indi' Dated. Bu as they 
turned the rock both stopped short. 

A knight, of whose presence they now first be- 
came aware, knelt down before the cross. He was 
wrapped in a large mantle which, by the stiffness 
of its folds indicated that a complete suit of armour 
lay underneath. His head alone remained bare, 
his helmet was on the ground, while ten steps in 
the rear, masked also by the rock, stood an esquire 
in war armour, mounted on a charger, and holding 
the horse of his master, likewise in harness of 
battle. 

The knight was a man in the full prime of life ; 
that is, from forty-six to forty-eight years of age, 
with the brown complexion of a Moreno, thick 
hair, and a bushy beard. Both hair and beard 
were dark as a raven’s wing. 

The two travellers stopped an instant to con- 
template that man who, motionless as a statue, 
w as performing at the tomb of the Mongat the 
same pious duty which they had come to fulfil 
themselves. 

On his part, the unknown knight, while his 
prayer lasted, appeared to pay no attention to the 
new comers ; then his prayer being finished, he 
made, and to the great astonishment of the two 
witnesses, with his left hand, the sign of the 
cross, gave a courteous bow, replaced his helmet 
on his sunburnt forehead, and wrapped always in 
his mantle, remounted, turned the angle of the 
rock, followed by hiS squire, even more dry, stiff, 
and embrowned than himself, and rode off. 

Although at that time many such persons might 
he met with, yet there was something in this of so 
peculiar a character that both travellers remarked 
it, but each in his own mind only : for time was 
beginning to press ; three leagues were yet to be 
traversed, and the ecclesiastic had made the en- 
gagement to say, at the grave of the Mongat, a 
Paternoster, an Ave- Maria, a De Profundis et 
Fide ium. 

The prayer over, Messire Jehan looked round 
. him. The knight who, doubtless, knew nothing 
more than himself, had left him alone; he made, 
therefore, in his turn, the sign of the cross, but 


with his right hand, and went to rejoin his com- 
panion. 

“ Eh?” said he to the tw r o servants, “ have you 
not seen a knight, in war-harness, followed by his 
squire, the knight seeming to be about forty -six 
years of age, the squire, fifty-five or sixty?” 

“I have already inquired, messire,” said, with a 
sign of the head, Espaing de Lyon, who had 
experienced the same curiosity as his travelling 
companion. “ He appears to-follow the same road 
as ourselves; and, like ourselves, no doubt, will 
sleep at Tarbes.” 

“ Let us, then, trot on to rejoin him, if it please 
you, Messire Espaing,” said the chronicler ; “ for 
perhaps if we overtake him, he will speak with us, 
as is customary with persons who follow the same 
road. And, ihethinks, that there would 
many things to learn in the company of a man 
who has seen a sun hot enough so to darken his 
colour.” 

“ Let us do, then, as you wish, messire,” said 
the knight, “fer I confess that I feel a curiosity 
not less keen than yours; although, in these can- 
tons, I never recollect having hitherto seen that 
face in the country.” 

Consequently on this resolution, our travellers 
went on at a more rapid step, their horses, how- 
ever, still keeping the same distance, that of the 
knight being always a little in advance of that of 
the churchman.. But it was uselessly that they has- 
tened the pace of their beasts. The road which had 
become wider and finer as it skirted the river of 
Lisse, gave equal facility to the unknown and his 
squire to double their speed, and the travellers 
arrived at the gates of Tarbes, without having 
overtaken the object of their curiosity. Once 
arrived there, quite a new solicitude took pos- 
session of the churchman. 

“ Messire,” said he, to the knight, “you know that 
the first need of a traveller is a good resting place 
and a good supper. Where are we to lodge, if 
you please, in this town of Tarbes, where I know 
no one, and where I come for the first time, having 
been sent for, as you well know, by Monseigneur 
Gaston Phoebus?” 

“ Be not anxious, messire,” said the knight, 
smiling; “with your good pleasure we will lodge 
at the Star, ’tis the best hostelry in the town 
without mentioning that the host is a friend of mine/' 

“Good!” said the chronicler, “I have alwayi 
remarked that on a journey there are two sorts of 
persons whom one should have for friends, those 
who fleece in the town and those who fleece in 
the forest — innkeepers and thieves. Let us go, 
then, to your friend, the host of the Star, and you 
will give me your recommendation to him, against 
my next return.” 

Both then went on to the inn mentioned, which 
was in the market-place of the town, and en- 
joyed, as Messire Espaing de Lyon said, a great 
reputation in a circuit of ten leagues. 

The host was on the threshold of his door, 
where, much descending from his aristocratic 
habits, he was employed in plucking with his own 
hands a splendid pheasant, to which he left, how- 
ever, with a gastronomic scrupulosity, which only 
epicures can appreciate who wish to enjoy not 
only the pleasures of taste and smell but also those 
of sight, the feathers of its head and tail; but 
before being totally absorbed in this important 
occupation, he perceived Messire Espaing de Lyon 
at the moment he arrived on the place, and 
putting the pheasant under his left arm, while 
he uncapped with the right, he advanced a few 
steps to meet him. 


30 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


“ Ah ! ’tis you, Messire Espaing,” said he with 
the liveliest display of joy; “ welcome to you and 
your honourable company; t is many a long day 
since I have seen you, and I feared it might be a 
long while still before you passed through our 
town, eh? Brin d’Avoine, take the horses of 
these gentlemen. Ho ! Marion, make ready the best 
rooms; gentlemen, alight if you please, and honour 
my poor hgstelry with your presence.” 

“ Well,” said the knight to his companion, “ did 
I not tell you, Messire Jehan, that Master Bar- 
naby was a rare man, and that one could find in 
his house at a moment’s notice, all one might have 
need of.” 

“ Yes,” said the churchman, “ and I have nothing 
to object to as yet. but that I have heard only of 
stables and rooms, and not a word of supper.” 

“Oh! as to supper, your lordship may be at 
ease,” said the innkeeper. Messire Espaing will 
tell you that I am only reproached on one account 
— that of furnishing my traveLers with too plenti- 
ful meals.” 

“ Come, come, Master Gascon.” replied Messire 
Espaing who, like his companion, had dismounted 
and flung his horse’s bridle to the valets, “ show us 
our way, and only give us half what you promise, 
and we shall be satisfied.” 

“ Half,” cried Master Barnaby’ “half! why I 
should quite lose my character if I acted thus; 
twice what I promise, Messire Espaing, twice as 
much !” 

The knight gave a glance of satisfaction to the 
churchman, and both following the innkeeper’s 
steps, entered the kitchen after him. 

In fact, everything in this well- replenished 
kitchen gave a foretaste of that happiness which, 
for your true feeders, results from a well-ordered 
and well-served repast. The spit was turning - 
the stewpans singing — the gridirons hissing — and, 
in the midst of all this noise, like an 'harmonious 
summons to table, the clock struck six. 

The knight rubbed his hands, and the chronicler 
licked his lips. Chroniclers are in general great 
epicures, but it is much worse when, beside being 
chroniclers, they are also churchmen. 

At this moment, and while the looks of the two 
new comers, starting from the same point, that is, 
from the spit, were making a circuit round the 
room, to assure themselves that the promised 
enjoyments were quite substantial, and would not 
escape them like those fairy viands promised by 
wicked enchanters to the ancient knight-errants, 
an ostler made his appearance in the kitchen, and 
whispered in the innkeeper’s ear. 

“ Ah ! the devil,” said this last, scratching his 
*ar; “and so you say there is no place in the 
stables for these gentlemen’s horses?” 

“ Not the smallest, master; the knight who has 
just arrived, has taken the two last; not of the 
stable, for that was already full, but of the out- 
house.” 

“Oh! oh!” said Messire Espaing; “we shall 
find it inconvenient to separate from our horses, 
but if you have really no place here, we consent 
in order not to lose the good rooms which you 
promise us, that they shall go with our servants 
to some other part of the town.” 

“ In that case,” said Master Barnaby, “ I can 
suit you, and your horses will gain by the change; 
for they shall be lodged in stables to which the 
Count of Foin has nothing similar.” 

“ These magnificent stables must serve our turn 
then,’ said Messire Espaing; “but to-morrow 
morning, mind, the horses must be at your door 
by six o’clock and ready saddled; for Messire 


| Jehan and myself are going to the town of Pau, 
j where Messire Gascon Phoebus is awaiting us.” 

“ Be at your ease,” replied Master Barnaby ; 
“ and rely on my word.” 

At that moment the chambermaid came in and 
whispered in mine host’s ear, whose face imme- 
diately put on an appearance of perplexity. 

“Well - then! what is it now?” asked Messire 
Espaing, 

“ ’Tis not possible,” replied the innkeeper; and 
he held oid his ear again for the chambermaid to 
repeat her whisper. 

“ What does she say?” asked the knight. 

“ She says what is incredible.” 

“ Well, what is it?” 

“ That there are no more rooms.” 

“ Good,” said Messire Jehan; “ here we are sen- 
tenced to go and sleep with our horses.” 

“Oh! gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried Barnaby; 
“ how many excuses I owe you; but the knight 
who has just arrived, a little before you, has taken 
for himself and his squire, the only two rooms 
which remained.” 

“ Bah !” said Messire Jehan, who appeared ac- 
customed to such disappointments; “a bad night 
is soon passed, provided we have a good supper.” 

“See,” said the innkeeper; “here is the head 
cook, whom I have just sent for.” 

The head cook drew the landlord aside, and 
began a conversation with him in a whisper. 

“ Oh !” said the landlord, making an effort to 
look pale, “ ’tis impossible.” 

The head cook made a gesture with his head 
and hands, as if to say, “ So it is.” 

The churchman, who seemed perfectly to com- 
prehend the vocabulary of signs, when this voca- 
bulary referred to the kitchen, really grew pale. 

“Heyday,” said he, “what is it now?” 

“ Gentlemen,” replied mine host, “ it is Mariton 
who has made a mistake.” 

“And in what is he mistaken?” 

“ In having informed me that he has not where- 
with to provide supper for you, as the knight who 
has just come has bespoke all that remains of the 
provisions for himself.” 

“Look you, Master Barnaby,” said Messire 
Espaing de Lyon, knitting his brow, “ no jesting 
if you please.” 

“ Alas ! messire,” said the innkeeper’ “ I beg 
you to believe that there is not the least jesting in 
the case, and that I cannot be more sorry than I 
am for your disappointment.” 

“I admit that all you say regarding stables and 
rooms may be right,” replied the knight; “but as 
to supper, ’tis quite another affair, and I assure 
you I am not to be put off thus. There is a whole 
range of stew -pans.” 

“ Messire, it is intended for the Castellan of Ma~- 
cheras, who is here with his lady.” 

‘ And that capon turning on the spit?” 

“ It is bespoke by a fat canon of Carcassonne, 
who is going to rejoin his chapter, and who only 
eats flesh one d jy in the week.” 

“ And that gridiron laden with cutlets, which 
gives forth so savoury a smell?” 

“ Those, with the pheasant, which I am now 
plucking, are for the supper of the knight, who 
arrived an instant before you.” 

“ So then,” sai l Messire Espaing, “it seems that 
this devil of a knight has taken everything? 
Master Barnaby, do me the favour to go and tell 
him that a fasting knight proposes to break a lance 
with him, not for the bright eyes of his lady, but for 
thegood savour of his supper; and you wall* add that 
Messire Jehan Eroissard, the chronicler, shall be 


TRB IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


81 


judge of the lists, and shall register our feats and 
exploits.” 

“ There is no need of that, messire,” said a voice 
behind Master Barnaby, “ as I come on my 
master’s behalf to invite both 3; on, Messire Espaing 
de Lyon, and you, Messire Jehan F* fissard, to 
sup with him.” 

Messire Espaing turned round on hearing th„* 
voice, and recognised the squire of the unknown 
knight. 

“Oh! oh!” said he, “here is, it seems, a most 
courteous invitation. What say you, Messire J e- 
han ?” 

“ Not only that it is most courteous, but that 
it comes very much in season.” 

“ And what is the name of your master, my 
friend, that we may know to whom we are in- 
debted for so much politeness?” asked Espaing 
de Lyon. 

“ He will tell you himself, if you will be so 
good as to follow me,” replied the squire. 

The travellers looked at each other, and, as 
partly from hunger, partly from curiosity, both 
felt the same wish. 

“ Go on, then,” they both said at the same time, 
“ show us the way, and we will follow.” 

Both mounted the staircase behind the squire, 
who opened the door of a room, at the bottom of 
which stood the unknown knight, who, with his ar- 
mour laid aside, appeared in a black velvet gown 
with long and wide sleeves, and holding his hands 
behind his back. 

On perceiving them, he advanced a few steps’ 
ar d, with a courteous salute, “Welcome, gentle- 
men,” said he, presenting his left hand, “ and 
receive all the thanks wdiich I owe you, for having 
consented to accept my invitation.” 

The knight had so honourable and open a 
countenance; the hand which he put forward ap- 
peared offered with so much frankness, that both 
accepted it, although it was an almost absolute 
custom among knights only to offer the right 
hand, and almost an insult to present the other. 
However, the two travellers, while they returned 
to the unknown knight this singular mark of 
politeness, could not sufficiently master their 
surprise to prevent its appearing on their counte- 
nance ; but the knight did not appear to remark it. 

“ It is we, messire,” said Eroissard, “ who owe 
you thanks ; for we were in great perplexity, when 
your kind invitation came to our relief. Accept 
then, our very hearty acknowledgments.” 

“ Nay, I have more to say,” said the knight, 
“ as I have two rooms, and you are unprovided, 
I will give you that intended for my squire.” 

“ Truly,” said Espaing de Lyon, “ you are too 
kind; but where, then, will your squire sleep?” 

“In my room, perdie!” 

“ Not so,” said Froissard, “ that would be pre- 
suming too much.” 

“ Bah ! ” said the knight, “ we are accustomed 
to that; it is now twenty-five years, since we first 
slept under the same tent, and during those 
twenty-five years it has so often happened, that 
we have no longer numbered .the occasions. But, 
be seated gentlemen.” and the knight, pointing out 
to the travellers chairs placed round a table on 
which stood glasses and a flagon, set them the 
example by taking a seat himself. 

The two travellers then, in their turn, sat 
dowij. 

“ Well, then, it’s a thing agreed on,” said the 
unknown knight, filling up three glasses of hypo- 
eras, and making use for this of the left hand, as 
he had done hitherto. 


“ In faith, yes,” said Espaing de Lyon, “ and we 
think we should insult you, sir knight, did we re- 
fuse so cordial an offer. Are you not cf the same 
opinion, Messire Jehan?” 

“ So much the more,” replied the treasurer of 
Chimay, “ that the inconvenience we may cause 
umi will not be of long duration.” 

How so?” asked the unknown knight. 

< We leave to-morrow for Pau.” 

14 Truly,” said the knight, “one knows when 
one arrives; one knows not when one may leave.” 

“We are expected at the court of Count Gaston 
Phoebus.” . 

“ And nothing would seem to you of interest 
enough to detain you a week on the road?” asked 
the knight. 

“ Nothing but a very curious and very interest- 
ing history,” answered Espaing de Lyon. 

“ Even, in that case,” said the chronicler, “ I 
know not how I could break my woi d to Monseig- 
neur the Count of Foix.” 

“Messire Jehan Froissard,” said the knight, 
“you said but just now at thePas de Larre, that you 
would give your abbey of Chimay to him who would 
tell you the adventures of the Bastard of Mau- 
leon.” 

“ Yes, certainly, I said so; but how do you know 
it?” 

“You forget that I was saying an Are on the 
tomb of the Mongat, and that from wht re I was 
I could hear every word you said.” 

“ See what it is to speak on the high road, Mes- 
sire Jehan Froissard,” said, with a laugh, Espaing 
de Lyon. “ These words will cost you your 
abbey.” 

“By the mass! sir knight,” said Froissard, “ I 
guess that I have fallen on a lucky moment, and 
that you know this history.” 

“You c*re not deceived,” said the knight, “ and 
no one kno.vs, or can tell it you better then I, 
from the time he killed the Mongat of Lourdes, to 
that at which his hand was cut off.” 

“And what will it cost me?” said Froissard, 
who, in spite of the curiosity which he had felt to 
hear this history, began to regret that he had 
pledged his abbey. 

“ It will cost you a week, sir abbot,” replied the 
unknown knight; “ and even then, it will be diffi- 
cult for you, during that week, to write down on 
parchment all that I may dictate to you.” 

“ I thought,” said Froissard, “ that the Bastard 
of Mauleon had sworn never to let this history be 
known?” + 

“ Not until he had found a chronicler worthy to 
record it; and now*, Messire Jehan, he has no 
longer reason to conceal it.” 

“ In that case,” said Froissard, “ why not write 
it yourself?’ 5 

“ Because there is a great obstacle to my doing 
so,” said the knight, with a smile. 

“ What is that?” asked Messire Espaing de 
Lyon. 

“ This is it,” said the knight, raising his right 
sleeve with his left hand, and placing on the table 
a mutilated arm, ended by an iron hook. 

“Jesus!’ said Froissard, trembling with joy, 
“ can you be ” 

“ The Bastard of Mauleon in person, whom 
others call also Agenor, with the iron hand.” 

'“And you will tell me your history?” asked 
Froissard, with the eagerness of hope. 

“ As soon as we have supped,’" said the knight, 

“Good,’ said Froissard, rubbing his hands; 
“you spoke truth, Messire Espaing de Lyon. 
Monseigneur Gaston Phoebus must wait. ’ 


32 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


And that very evening, after supper, the Bastard 
of Mauleon, in conformity with his promise, began 
to relate to Messire Jehan Froissard, the history 
which our reader has now before him, and which 
we have taken from an unedited manuscript, with- 
out taking any other pains, as is our custom, than 
that of changing to the third person singular, a 
narrative written in the first. 


CHAPTER II. 

OW THE BASTARD OS MAULEON, ON THE ROAD 
BETWEEN PINCHEL AND COIMBRA MET A MOOR 
OF WHOM HE' ASKED THE WAY, AND WHO 
PASSED ON WITHOUT REPLY. 

Of a fine morning in the month of June, 1361, one 
fearless oftrustinghimself in the plains under a heat 
of more than a hundred and ten degrees, might, 
have seen advancing on the road from Pinchel to 
Coimbra, in Portugal, a figure which the men of 
our day will not feel averse to hear described. 

It was not a man, but a complete suit of arms, 
composed of a helmet, brassarts and cuishes, with 
lance on arm, a targe round its neck, and the 
whole crowned with a plume of red feathers, above 
which rose the point of the lance. 

This armour was balanced on a horse, of which 
naught was perceptible but its black legs and 
glowing eye; for, like its master, it disappeared 
under its war harness, covered by a white housing, 
ribbed with red cloth. From time to time the 
noble animal shook its head, and neighed even 
more with rage than pain, whenever some fly had 
succeeded in getting under its heavy trappings and 
made its greedy bite felt. 

As to the horseman, as stiff and firm on his 
stirrups as if he had been rivetted to the saddle, 
he seemed to take pride in braving the ardent heat 
which fell from that copper sky, inflaming the air, 
and.drying up the grass. Many whom none on that 
account would have been accused of being delicate* 
would have allowed themselves to lift the barred 
vizor which changed the inside of the helmet into 
a stove; but, by the inflexible demeanour and 
generous immobility of the, knight, one might see 
that he could exhibit, even in the desert, the vigour 
of his constitution, and his power of enduring all 
the hardships of a soldier’s life. 

We have said the desert, and in fact the country 
through which the knight was taking his way, 
well deserved that name. It was a species of 
valley, just sufficiently deep to concentrate on the 
road which the knight was following, all the rays 
of a burning sun. For more than two hours already 
the heat felt there was so great, that it had lost its 
most assiduous frequenters; the shepherds and 
flocks, who, morning and evening appeared on its 
double slope, to look for some blades of parched 
and yellow grass, had taken refuge behind the 
hedges and bushes, and slept in the shade. As far 
as the eye could reach, one might vainly seek a 
traveller sufficiently bold, or rather insensible 
enough to heat, to traverse a soil which seemed 
composed of the ashes of rocks calcined by the 
sun. The only living animal, who proved that 
animated beings could live in such a furnace, was 
the cricket, or rather the thousands of crickets, 
who bulwarked between pebbles, clinging to the 
blades of grass, or basking on some olive branch, 
white with dust, gave forth their shrill and mono- 
tonous sound; it was their triumphal song, and 
announced thn conquest of the desert, where they 
reigned as sol * and undisputed sovereigns. 


We were wrong, however, in asserting that 
eye would have vainly sought another trav* 
around the horizon, than the one we have er 
voured to describe, for a hundred steps be>._.nl 
him, walked a second figure not less singular than 
the first, although of quite a different character: it 
was a man of about thirty, dry, bent, sunburnt, 
and rather lying over than seated, on a horse as 
meagre as himself. He was sleeping on the saddle, 
by which he held fast with his hands, and evi- 
dently not troubled with any of those cares which 
kept his companion awake, not even that of know- 
ing the road he went, for which he evidently 
depended on one better informed and more inte- 
rested than himself, in not being misled. 

However, the knight tired at last, no doubt, with 
carrying his lance so high, and bearing himself 
so stiffly in the saddle, halted to raise nis vizor, 
and thus to givb passage to the boiling vapour 
which had begun to ascend through his iron cover- 
ing up to his head; but before executing this 
movement, he flung his eyes round him, like a 
man who appears not the least inclined to think 
courage less estimable because accompanied with 
a suitable amount of discretion. 

It was in this movement of rotation, that he saw 
his careless companion, and looking attentively he 
perceived that he was asleep. 

“ Musaron,’ cried the iron-clad horseman, hav- 
ing first raised the vizor of his helmet ; “ Musaron, 
awake, cr by the precious blood of Saint Jago! as 
the Spaniards say, you will not arrive at Coimbra 
with my valise, whether you lose it on the way, or 
that it is stolen by thieves. Musaron! but will you 
always sleep, fellow?” 

But tue squire — for such was the office filled 
near the cavalier’s person - by him whom he ad- 
dressed; the squire, we say, slept too fast for the 
sound of a voice alone to wake him; the knight 
perceived therefore that some stronger means 
must be employed, the more so as the sleeper’s 
horse, seeing that his leader had stopped had 
thought proper to stop also, so that Musaron 
having passed from motion to immobility, had 
only a better chance to enjoy a deeper sleep; he 
then unfastened a little ivory horn, crusted with 
gold, which was suspended to his girdle, and ap- 
proaching it to his mouth, he gave, with a strong 
breath, two or three notes which made his horse 
rear and that of his companion neigh. 

This time Musaron aw r oke with a bound. 

“ Halloo!” cried he, drawing a sort of cutlass, 
fastened round his waist; “halloo! wdiat. do you 
want, thieves? halloo! wfflat do you ask, gipsies, 
devils ! grandchildren? Make off, or I will cut and 
split you down to the midriff.” 

And the brave squire began to lay about him, 
right and left, until, perceiving that he w^as only 
belabouring the air, he stopped, and looking on 
his master with an air of astonishment— “ Eh! 
what is it?’ said he, Messire Agenor, opening 
his astonished eyes; “ wdiere are these folks who 
are attacking us? have they vanished like a 
vapour? or have I destroyed them, before being 
quite awake?” 

*' The fact is,” said the knight, “that you are 
dreaming, and that w hile you dream you let my 
shield drag at the end of its strop, w hich is dis- 
honouring to the arms of an honourable knight. 
Come, come — wake up altogether, or I shall break 
my lance over your shoulders.” 

Musaron shook his head in rather an impertinent 
fashion. 

“ On my faith, Sir Agenor ” said he, “ you will 
do w-ell, and by that means we shall have one lance 


TITE TRON - HAND; OR. THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON'. 


3B 



at least broken during our journey. Instead of 
opposing this project, I therefore invite you with 
all my heart to put it into execution.” 

“ What do you mean?” said the knight. 

“ I mean,” said the squire, still drawing nearer 
with his merry carelessness, “that during the 
sixteen long days which we have now ridden in 
Spain, that land so full of adventures, as you said 
on setting out for it, we have hitherto met no other 
enemy than sun and tiies, and no other booty than 
swellings on our limbs and dust. Plague on’t, Sir 
Agenor, I am hungry; plague on’t, Sir Agenor, I 
am thirsty; plague on’t, Sir Agenor, my purse 
is empty ; that is, I am a prey to the three greatest 
calamities in this world; and that I see no sign 
of those great pillagings of infidel Moors with 
which you feasted my ears, which were to enrich 
our bodies and save our souls, and on which I had 
made beforehand such sweet dreams, down in our 
fine country of Bigorre before I was y r our squire, 
and above all, before I am so. ’ 

2 


“ Would you, perchance, presume to complain 
when I hold my peace?” 

“ I should have some reason, Sir Agenor, and in 
fact, it is only boldness that I wmnt. Almost our 
very last franc has been expended among those 
armourers of Pinchel, who have ground your axe, 
sharpened your sword, and polished your armour; 
and truly nothing more is wanted than a ren- 
contre with brigands.” 

“ Cownrd ! ’ 

“One moment! Let us understand each other. 
Sir Agenor. I don’t say that I fear it.” 

“ What then do you mean to say?” 

“ I say that I desire it.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because w r e should rob the thieves,” said 
Musaron, with the sarcastic smile which made the 
principal character of his physiognomy. 

The knight raised his lance with the very visible 
intention of letting it fall on the shoulders of Ins 
squire, who had come sufficiently near to give him 


84 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


si good opportunity for that kind of chastisement; 
but this last, with a motion full of address which 
seemed familiar to him, evaded the blow, while he 
held up the lance with his hand. 

“ Take care, Sir Agenor,” said he, “ and don’t 
let us jest in this fashion; I hav^ hard bones and 
very little flesh upon them. A misfortune soon 
happens; one false stroke, and you would break 
your lance, and we should be obliged to repair the 
wood ourselves, or to present ourselve* before Don 
Frederick with an incomplete equipment, which 
would be a disparagement to the honour of the 
chivalry of Bearn.” 

“ Hold your tongue, cursed babbler! You would 
do much better, if you must absolutely talk, to 
mount that hill and tell me what you see from the 
top.” 

“ Ah!” said Musaron, “ if it were that to which 
Satan transported our Lord, and if I found any 
one there, were it the devil in his own person, who, 
on condition that I kissed his hoof, offered me all 
the kingdoms of this world ” 

“ You would accept, renegado?” 

“ With gratitude, sir knight.” 

“Musaron,” gravely replied the knight, “jest 
with whatever you will, but not with holy 
things.” 

Musaron made a bow. 

“Is my master,” he said, “still desirous of 
learning what may be seen from the summit of 
that hill?” 

‘ More than ever; go on there.” 

Musaron made a slight circuit, just enough to 
keep him out of the reach of his master’s lance, 
then climbing the hill - 

“ Ah !” he cried, when he had gained the sum- 
mit, “Ah! Jesus God! what is it I see?” and he 
made the sign of the cross. 

“•Well, what do you see?” asked the knight. 

“ Paradise, or something much resembling it,” 
said Musaron, plunged in the most profound admi- 
ration. 

“ Describe me your paradise,” replied the knight, 
who always feared to become the dupe of some 
jest on his squire’s part. 

“Ah! sir knight, whatever you can dream of,” 
cried Musaron. “Groves of orange trees, with 
their golden fruit, a gr£at river with its silver 
waves, and beyond, the sea shining like a mirror of 
steel.” 

“ If you see the ocean,” said the knight, not has- 
tening to take his part as a spectator of the pic- 
ture, for fear, lest when arrived at the summit, all 
this magnificent prospect might have dissolved in 
vapour, like the mirages of which he had heard the 
pilgrims of the east speak. “ If you see the sea, 
Musaron, you must certainly be able to see 
Coimbra much better, as that is between us and the 
sea; and if you see Coimbra, we are at the end of 
our journey, since it was at Coimbra that my 
friend, the Grand Master Frederick, fixed our 
place of meeting.” 

“ Oh! yes,” said Musaron, “I see a large and 
fine town ; I see a lofty church tower.” 

“ ’Tis .well,” said the knight, beginning to be- 
lieve what his squire told him, and resolving this 
time to punish very severely this too protracted 
pleasantry, if pleasantry it were. “Well, it is the 
town of Coimbra; it is the tower of the cathe- 
dral.” 

“ What is it I say? a town! What do I say? a 
church tower! I see two towns — I see two church 

towers.” 

“Two towns! two steeples!” said the knight, 
amvi.ig in his turn at the brow of the hill; “you 


will see that just now we had not enough, and that 
now we shall have too much.” 

“ Too much, indeed,” said Musaron ; “ do you 
see, Sir Agenor, one on the right, the other on the 
left? Do you see the road which on the other 
side of the lemon grove, branches out in two 
directions? Which of those two towns is Ooimbra, 
and which road must we follow?” 

“ In fact,” murmured the knight, “ here is a 
new perplexity, and one of which I had not 
hitherto dreamed.” 

“ So much the greater,” said Musaron, “ that if 
we are deceived, and that, unfortunately, we take 
the road of the false Coimbra, we shall be unable 
to find, at the bottom of our purse, enough to pay 
for our lodging.” 

The knight cast around him a second glance, but 
in the hope this time to perceive some passer-by 
from whom he might obtain information. 

“Accursed country,” said he, “or rather ac- 
cursed desert! for when one says country, one 
supposes a spot inhabited by some other creatures 
than lizards and crickets. Oh! where shall we 
find France,” continued the knight, with one of 
those sighs which sometimes escape from the breast 
of the least melancholy, when they think of their 
distant country. France, where one may always 
find an encouraging voice to point out one’s road.” 

“ And a sheep’s milk cheese to refresh your 
throat; see what it is to leave one’s country. Ah! 
Sir Agenor, you have good reason to say, ‘ France! 
France!’ ” 

“ Hold your tongue, rascal,” cried the knight, 
who was very willing to think himself what Mu- 
saron spoke aloud, but unwilling that Musaron 
should say aloud what he thought in his heart. 
“ Hold your tongue.” 

Musaron did not think of complying, and the 
reader must already know the worthy squire inti- 
mately enough to know, that on this point, it was 
not his custom blindly to obey his master. He went 
on, then, as if only communing with his own 
thoughts. 

“ And, besides,” said he, “ how should we be 
succoured or saluted? we are alone in this damned 
Portugal. Oh! the great companies,* that is what 
is fine, that is what is agreeable, that is what is 
imposing, and above all, that is what makes it easy 
to live. Oh! Sir Agenor, why are we not at this 
moment members of some great company, on 
horseback on the roads of Languedoc, or of 
Guienne?” 

“ You reason like a Jack,f Do you know that. 
Master Musaron?” said the knight. 

“I am so, sir, or at least I was so, before I 
entered your knightly service.” 

“ Make you a boast of that, fellow?” 

“Don’t speak ill of them, Sir Agenor; for the 
Jacks found means to feed while they fought, and 
in that they had the advantage of us, for we fight 
not, it is true, but neither do we feed.” 

* This refers to the predatory associations of armed men, 
disbanded soldiers, and others, who, during and after the 
English wars in France, in the fourteenth century, traversed 
the country raising contributions. — Translator. 

+ “Jacques,” in original, “Jacques,” or “Jacques Bon- 
homme,” was, during the middle ages, and even up to the 
present day, a name utven to the French peasantry, and it 
might be doubtful from this circumstance, whether the con- 
text does not refer to th 1 “ Jacqueries,” or insurrec tions of 
peasants which occurred consequently on the disorder and 
devastation accompanying the English invasions. But 1 
know not whether it may be used here as a cant name for 
the freebooters of the “grandes ompagnies.” >fv reason 
for translating Jacques into Jack, is that Jackin England, 
as in “ Serving Jack,” “ Jack Knaves,” '‘Jack of all Trades,” 
was used much in the same sense as Jacques in France. — 
Translator. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 



“ All this makes us no wiser, as to which of 
these towns is Coimbra,” grumbled the knight. 

“ No,” said Musaron, “but here are some coming 
who perhaps will tell us.” 

And he pointed out to his master a cloud of 
duSt, betokening the approach of a small party of 
travellers. It came on along the same road they 
had traversed, at about half a league’s distance, 
and the sun shining upon it, made it at times seem 
as if spangled with gold. 

“Ah!” said the knight, “there is at last what 
we seek for.” 

“ Yes,” said Musaron, “ or what i% seeking for 
us.” 

“ Well, just now, did you not ask to meet 
brigands?” 

“ But I did not ask for too many,” said Musaron. 
“Truly, fortune is about to overwhelm us with the 
accomplishment of our wishes; I asked for three 
or four brigands, and it sends us a troop; we asked 
for a city, and behold it sends us two. Let us see, 
sir knight,” continued Musaron, drawing nearer to 
his master, “ let us have a consultation, and ex- 
change our opinions; two heads are better than 
one, you know it. Begin by telling what yours 
suggest.” 

“My opinion,” replied the knight, “is that we 
should gain the lemon grove by which the road 
passes, and which offers us at once, shadow and 
security; there we will wait, prepared either for 
attack or defence.” 

“ Oh ! most rational opinion,” cried the squire, 
in a tone half of banter, half of conviction, “ and 
which I may embrace without discussion; shade and 
security, that is all I asked for, this, moment. 
Shade, is half as good as water; security is three 
parts of courage. Let us gain, then, the lemon 
wood, and as quickly as we can Sir Agenor.” 

But the two travellers had forgotten to consider 
their horses. These poor animals were so fatigued 
that repeated inflictions of the spur brought them 
no faster than a walk. Happily this tardiness had 
no other inconvenience than that of leaving the 
travellers longer exposed to the sun. The little 
troop against whom they took these precautions 
was still too remote to perceive their presence; 
once arrived at the wood, they made up for timtT 
ast. Musaron instantly dismounted from his 
orse, which was so fatigued, that it lay down at 
the same time as himself; the knight also alighted, 
dung his bridle into his squire’s hand, and sat 
down at the foot of a palm tree which rose up like 
the king of that little odorous forest. 

Musaron fastened the horse to a tree, and began 
to hunt for provender in the wood. In a moment's 
time he returned with a dozen sweet nuts, and two 
or three lemons, of which he offered the first choice 
to the knight, who declined with the shake of the 
head. 

“Ah! yes,” said Musaron, “I know that it is 
not very recruiting, for persons who have made 
four hundred leagues in sixteen days. But what can 
3’ou do, sir? — we can only take patience. We are 
going to meet the illustrious Don Frederick, grand 
master of Saint Jago, brother, or thereabouts of Don 
Pedro, king of Castile; and if he only keeps to the 
half of what he promises in his letters, we. shall 
have on,our next journey, fresh horses, mules with 
tinkling bells to attract the passers-by, pages with 
clothes fitted to strike the eye, and we shall see 
flashing round us, the girls of the posadas (inns); as 
also muleteers and beggars; some will offer us 
win?, others fruits; th; least particular will offer 
us their houses, if only for tne honour of lodging 
us, and then we shall count nothing, precisely,. be- 


cause we shall stand in need of nothing; but till 
then, we must crack wild nuts, and suck lemons.” 

“ ’Tis well, ’tis well, Sir Musaron,” said the 
knight with a smile; “ in two days you shall have 
all you have said, and this meal is your last meagre 
day.” 

“ May Heaven hear you, sir,” said Musaron, 
raising a look full of doubt, at the same time that 
he lifted from his head his cap, surmounted by a 
long eagle’s feather of the Pyrenees; I will en- 
deavour to exalt myself in the measure of my for- 
tune, and to do that I need only mount on our 
past mishaps.” 

“ Bah!” said the knight, “ past misfortunes make 
future happiness.” 

“ Amen,” said Musaron. 

Without doubt, notwithstanding this religious 
winding up, Musaron would soon ha ve resumed the 
conversation on some other ground, when* on a 
sudden, the tinkling of bells, the trot of a dozen 
horses or mules, and the clattering of iron began 
to resound some way off. 

“Be on the alert!” cried the knight, “here ccmes 
the troop in question. The devil! it has made 
good speed; and it would seem that those who 
compose it have horses less tired than ours.” 

Musaron put the remainder of his nuts and his 
last lemon in a tuft of grass, and ran to the stir- 
rups of his master, who was mounted, and his lance 
in hand, in an instant. 

Then, from among the trees, where they had 
made their short halt, they could perceive appear- . 
ing, at the summit of the hill, a troop of travellers 
mounted on good mules, and richly clad, some in 
Spanish, some in Moorish habiliments. After the 
first troop came a man, who appeared the chief, 
and who, wrapped in a large hooded mantle of 
fine white wool with its silky fleece outward, only 
exhibited two sparkling eyes from behind this ram- 
part. 

In all, this chief included, there were twelve 
strong and well armed men, and six led mule.-, 
conducted by four valets; these twelve men, as we 
have already said, took the lead, and after them 
came the chief; while, after the chief, forming the 
rear guard, came the six mules, and their four 
grooms, amongst whom was carried a litter of 
painted and gilded wood, imperviously c osed by 
silk curtains, and receiving air only through inter- 
stices in the ornaments of a carved frieze work 
going round its top. Two mules, not comprised 
in the preceding enumeration, drew this litter at a 
walk. 

“Ah! this time,” said Musaron, somewhat as- 
tonished, “they are indeed true Moors, and I 
think, sir knight, I have spoken somewhat too 
soon. See how black they are. Truly! they 
might be taken for the devil’s body guards. And 
how richly dressed they are, the Unbelievers. 
Fity, is it not, Sir Agenor, that they should be so 
many, or that we do not form a larger company ? 

I think it would be doing heaven good service if 
we could make all that wealth pass into the hands 
of two such good Christians as ourselves. I say 
wealth* and that s the right word, for the treasures 
of that infidel are most certainly in that box of 
painted and gilded wood which follows him, and 
which he is at every instant turning round to 
look at.” 

“ Silence !” said the knight ; “ don’t you see that 
they are consulting, and that two armed attendants 
have taken the lead, and that they seem to wish to 
attack us? Come, come, prepare to lend me a 
helping hand, if it becomes necessary; and reach 
me my shield, so that if the opportunity presents 


36 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


itself, they may learn here what is & anight of 
France.” 

“ Messire,” replied Musaron, who appeared less 
resolved than his master, on taking a hostile atti- 
tude, “ I think you deceive yourself , these Moorish 
lords cannot think of attacking two inoffensive 
men; see, one of the two attendants has gone to 
consult his master, and the muffled face has given 
no order, but has only made a sign to go straight 
on. Eh ? see, sir, there they go, keeping to the road, 
without preparing their arrows, or bending their 
crossbows; they only keep their hands on their 
swords, and they must clearly be friends whom 
heaven has sent us.” 

“ Friends among the Moors! and what 
heed do you take to our holy religion, cursed 
Pagan!” 

Musaron felt he had laid himself open to this 
rebuff, and respectfully bowed his head. 

“Pardon, messire,” said he; “I was in error 
when T said friends. A Christian, as I well know, 
cannot be the friend of a Moor; it is counsellors 
that I meant to say. It is allowable to receive 
counsel from all the world, when that counsel is 
good. I shall go and question these honest gen- 
tlemen, and get them to point out our road.” 

“Well then! be it so; I will have it so,” said 
the knight; “ and I will have k so much the more, 
that they pass in my opinion with too much 
haughtiness before me, and that 1 have not per- 
ceived their ma'ster acknowledge the courteous 
salute which I made him by lowering the point of 
my lance. Go then and overtake him, and ask him 
with civility, on my behalf, which of tiiose two 
towns is Coimbra. Add that you come on the 
part of Sir Agenor de Mauleon; and in exchange 
for my name, ask his own, the name of that 
Moorish knight. — Depart.” 

Musaron who wished to present himself before 
the leader of the troops to the best advantage, 
strove to raise up his horse; but so long was it 
since the animal had found shade and grass, and 
so convenient, and above all, agreeable did it seem 
to it to graze lying down, that the squire could not 
bring it to its feet, even for an instant; he there- 
fore made up his mind, and ran on foot after the 
troops, which having continued to advance during 
the conference, was fast disappearing in the sinuous 
slope, under cover of a few olive trees. 

While Musaron ran on to deliver his message, 
Agenor de Mauleon, erect in his saddle, firm in 
his stirrups, motionless as an equestrian statue, 
kept his eye fixed on the Moor and his com* 
panions; soon he saw the chief horseman stop at 
the squire’s voice, and his escort follow his ex- 
ample; all those who composed it, seemed to live 
with the life of the chief, as if they had been ap- 
prised of his wishes by an interior voice, and had 
not even need of a sign to make them comply with 
his will. 

The weather was so clear, so profound a silence 
reigned over that nature slumbering under the 
glow of the heavens, the breeze from the sea was 
so gentle, that it brought to the knight’s ears the 
words uttered by Musaron, and Musaron dis- 
charged his commission not only as a faithful, but 
also as a skilful ambassador. 

“ Hail to your lordship,” said he, “ in the first 
place, on behalf of my master, the honourable and 
valiant Sir Agenor de Mauleon, who waits above 
on his stirrups, your lordship’s reply; hail secondly, 
on behalf of his unworthy squire, who very siu- 
c« rely congratulates himself on being permitted to 
acidress his speech to )ou.” 

The Moor made a grave and measured salute, 


with his head only, and waited in silence for the 
end of the discourse. 

“ Will your lordship please to point out,” con- 
tinued Musar.m, “ whijh of those steeples, which 
may be seen lower down, is that of Coimbra? Will 
your lordship also have the goodness to point out, 
if you know it, which among these fine palaces of 
the two towns we see, whose terraces command the 
ocean, is the palace of the illustrious Grand Master 
of St. Jago, the friend and ^ie impatient host of 
the valiant knight who has the honour to request 
from you, through my mouth, this two-fold infor- 
mation.” 

Musaron, to raise the estimation of himself and 
his master, had given more emphasis to the words 
relating to Don, Frederick than to the other part 
of his address. It was a confirmation of his tact 
that the Moor listened very attentively to the 
second part of the speech, and on hearing it, his 
eyes sparkled with that look of intellectual fire 
peculiar to his nation, and which might seem 
snatched from the solar beams. 

Hut he gave no more reply to the second, than to 
the first; and after a moment’s reflection, repeal- 
ing his salute, he uttered to his followers, a single 
Arabic word, in an imperious and gutteral tone 
of voice; then the advanced guard recommenced 
its march, the Moorish leader urged on his mule, 
and the rear-guard, in the midst of which was led 
the closed litter, followed in its turn. 

Musaron remained an instant on the spot, 
stupefied and humiliated. As to the knight he did 
not know whether the Arabic word, which he had 
understood as little as Musaron, had been given in 
answer to his squire, or addressed by the Moor to 
his followers. 

“ Ah !” said he on a sudden, Musaron, who 
would not admit to himself that he had received 
such an insult, “ he does not understand French, 
that is the cause of his silence. I should have 
addressed him in Castilian.” But, as the Moor 
was already too far for Musaron to run after him on 
foot, and as, besides, the prudent squire no doubt 
preferred a consolatory doubt, to a mortifying 
certainty, he returned to his master. 


CHAPTER III. 

HOW, WITHOUT THE MOOR’S AID, THE KNIGHT, 
AGENOR DE MAULEON, FOUND COIMBRA AND THE 
PALACE OF DON FREDERICK, GRAND MASTER OF 
ST. JAGO. 

Agenor, furious at what he had heard, and his 
squire repeated to him, had, for an instant, the 
idea of obtaining by force, what the Moor had 
refused to courtesy. But when he gave liis horse 
the spur to chase the impertinent Saracen, the 
poor animal showed so little inclination to second 
the designs of its master, that the knight was obliged 
to stop on the slope strewed with pebbles, which 
formed the only road. The rear guard of the 
Moor’s escort observed the proceedings of the two 
Franks, and turned round, from time to time, to 
avoid a surprise. 

“ Messire Agenor,” cried Musaron, alarmed at 
this demonstration, from which, however, the 
weariness of the horse took away every chance of 
danger, “ Messire Agenor, have I not already 
told you that the Moor did not understand French; 
and did I not say, that astonished like yourself at 
his silence, the idea of addressing him in Spanish 
occurred to me, but when he was already too fa^ 
to allow me to put the idea into execution? It i 
not with him that you ought to be offended, bi 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


37 


with me, to whom this unfortunate idea did not 
sooner occur. Besides,” added he, seeing that the 
knight had been obliged to come to a halt, “ besides, 
we are alone, and you see that your horse is worn 
out.” 

Mauleon shook his head. 

“ All that is very well said,” he replied, “ !i/ut 
that Moor did not act naturally; one may be 
unable to understand French, but in all countries 
one understands the universal language of gesture. 
Now in pronouncing the word Coimbra, you pointed 
out to him alternately the two towns, he must 
therefore necessarily have guessed that you were 
asking your road. I cannot at this moment over- 
take this insolent Moor. But by our Redeemer’s 
blood, which cries vengeance against the Infidel, 
let him never again find himself «©n my path.” 

“ On the contrary, sir,” said Musaron, in whom 
prudence never excluded either courage or resent- 
ment; ‘‘on the contrary, meet him again, but 
under other circumstances. Meet him face to face, 
with only the lacqueys who guard his litter. For 
example, you will take charge of the master, I of 
the servants ; and then we will see what he keeps 
in that box of painted wood.” 

“ Some idol, no doubt,” replied the knight. 

“ Or else his treasure,” said Musaron ; “ a great 
coffer with diamonds, pearls, rubies, enough to 
need both one’s hands to lift them. For these 
cursed Infidels know all the magic arts by which 
hidden treasures are discovered. Oh ! had we been 
only, sir— nay, only four, we should have shown 
you what was what, Master Moor. Oh ! France ! 
France!” continued Musaron, “where are you? 
Valiant men-at-arms, where are you? Respect- 
able adventurers, my companions, why are you not 
here?” 

“ Ah ! but,” said on a sudden the knight, who, 
during this sally of his squire, had remained in 
reflection, “I now think ” 

“ Of what?’’ said Musaron. 

“ Of Don Frederick’s letter.” 

“Well then?” 

“Well, in this letter, perhaps, we may find, re- 
garding the road to Coimbra, some information 
which I may have forgotten.” 

“ Ah ! ’fore God, that is thinking soundly and 
speaking to the purpose. The letter, Sir Agenor, 
produce the letter, if only to comfort us by the fine 
promises which it makes you.” 

The knight unfastened from his holster a small 
roll of perfumed leather, and from this roll drew 
out a parchment. It w r as the letter of Don 
Frederick, which he kept at once as a passport and 
a talisman. These were its contents : — 

“ Noble and generous knight, Don Agenor de 
Mauleon, do you remember the stout stroke of 
lance which you exchange at Narbonne, with 
Don Frederick, gra? '' master of St. Jago, when 
the Castilians came vO France to escort to their 
country, Donna Bianca de Bourbon?” 

“He means Madame Blanche de Bourbon,” 
interrupted the squire, nodding his head with the 
air of e man pretending to understand Spanish, 
and not wishing to let slip an occasion for dis- 
playing his knowledge. 

The knight looked aslant at Musaron, with that 
expression with which he was accustomed to meet 
the various modes of braggadocio, in which hi§* 
squire indulged. Then reverting his eyes to the 
parchment, he continued: — 

“ I have promised to preserve you in my 
memory, for you behaved to me with nobleness 
and courtesy.” 

“ The fact is,” again interrupted Musaron, “ that 


you might, sir knight, have easily stuck your 
poniard into his throat, as you did so neatly to 
the Mongat of Lourdes in the combat of the Pas 
de Larre, where you made your first beginning. 
For in that famous tourney in which you unhorsed 
him, and in which, furious at being unhorsed, he 
asked to continue the combat with sharpened 
weapons, instead of the arms of courtesy, with 
which you had hitherto fought, you held him 
completely under ycnr knee. And instead of 
abusing your victory, you generously said to him, 
I still hear the noble words — “ Arise, Grand 
Master of St. Jago, to remain the honour of Cas- 
tilian chivalry.” 

And Musaron accompanied these last words 
with a gesture full of dignity, by which he, no 
doubt, parodied without meaning it, the gesture 
which his master made on that glorious occasion. 

“ If he was unhorsed,” said Mauleon, “’twas the 
fault of his charger, which could not stand the 
shock. Those steeds of mixed Arabian and 
Castilian breed, better than ours in chase, are of 
less value in conflict. And if he fell under me 
’twas the fault of his spur which caught by the root 
of a tree, at the moment that I dealt an axe’s blow 
on his head; for he is an intrepid and skilful 
knight. Notwithstanding,” continued Agenor with 
a feeling of pride, which all the modesty of which 
he had given proof did not permit him to repress, 
“ the day on which occurred that memorable 
passage of arms near Narbonne, was a fine day 
for me.” 

“ Without reckoning that you received the prize 
from my lady Blanche de Bourbon, who herself 
had become quite pale and trembling, the sweet 
princess, when she saw that the tourney of which 
she came as a spectator had changed into a 
downright battle. Yes, sir,” replied Musaron, 
quite palpitating at the idea of the greatness 
awaiting his master and himself at Coimbra, “you 
have reason to say that it was a fine day, for it 
gave birth to your fortune.” 

“ I hope so,” modestly answered Agenor, “ but 
let us continue.” And he resumed his perusal. 

“ I recall to you this day the promise' w’hich you 
made to grant to no one but myself, the brother- 
hood of arms. We are both Christians, come to 
me at Coimbra in Portugal, which I have just 
won from the Infidel. I will procure you an op- 
portunity for performing bright deeds of arms 
against the enemies of our holy faith. You shall 
live in my palace, like myself, and at my court as 
my brother. Come, then, my brother, for I have 
great need of a man who loves me, living, as I do, 
in the midst of adroit and dangerous enemies. 

“ Coimbra is a town which you must know by 
name, situated, as I have already said, in Portugal, 
two leagues from the sea, on the river Mondego. 
You will only have to traverse friendly states: 
first, Arragon, which is the primitive domain left 
by Don Sancho the Great to Ramiro, who was a 
natural son, like yourself, and who w'as as great 
a king as you are a valiant knight; then New 
Castile, of which Alphonso V I. commenced the 
conquest from the Moors, and which has been 
completely conquered by his successors; then, 
Leon, theatre of the great deeds of the illustrious 
Pelagius, that worthy knight whose history I re- 
lated to you; then you will cross the Agueda, and 
you find yourself in Portugal, w here I await you. 
Do not approach too near to the mountains which 
lie on your left, unless you have a considerable 
suite, and put no trust in the Jews or Moors w hom 
you meet with on your road. 

“Adieu! remember that I called myself during 


33 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTOHT OF MAULEON. 


one whole day, Agenor in your honour, as you 
called yourself, one day, Federigo in mint . 

‘ 1 marched also under your colours that whole 
lay, as you marched under mine. It was thus 
that we went, -you bearing my scarf, I bearing 
yours, side by side, as far as Urgel, escorting our 
well-beloved queen, Donna Bianca de Bourbon. 
Come, Don Agenor, I stand in want of a brother 
and a friend — come.” 

“ Nothing in that letter,” said Musaron, “no- 
thing that can guide us.” 

“ On the contrary, everything,” said Agenor; 
“ did you not remark, and it is true, that during 
one whole day I wore his scarf?” 

“Well, then?” 

“Well! those colours were red and yellow. 
Look, then, Musaron, you, whose eyesight is so 
piercing, and seek if you can discern in either of 
those towns, an edifice on which floats a banner 
yellow as gold, and red as blood; that edifice must 
be the palace of my friend, Don Frederick, and the 
buildings surrounding it the town of Coimbra.” 

Musaron raised his hand over his eyes to inter- 
cept the rays of the sun, which confounded every 
object under floods of light, forming a sea of fire; 
a no having allowed his look to wander from right 
to left, and left to right, fixed them at last on a 
town situated on the right of the river, in one of 
the windings marked out by its course. 

“ Sir Agenor,” said Musaron, “ in that case, 
there is Coimbra on the right, at the foot of the 
hill, and behind that rampart of plantains and 
aloes; for on the principal building floats the ban- 
ner you h ave described, only it is surmounted by 
a red cross.” 

“The cross of Saint James!” cried the knight; 

“ that is it." But are you not under some mistake, 
Musaron?” 

“ Will you look yourself, sir knight?” 

“ The sun is so fierce, that 1 scarcely distinguish 
anything.’’ 

“Down there, messire, down there. Follow the 
road -there, between the two branches of the river. 
It forms two branches, does it not?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Follow the right branch which skirts the 
river. See you the troops of the Moor entering by 
one of the gates? Look, look.” 

Just at that moment the sun, which till then 
had been an obstacle to the travellers, came to 
Musaron’s assistance, by causing a reflection of 
light from the Moorish armour inlaid with 
gold. - 

“ Well, well, I see,” he said. 

Then after a moment’s reflection : “ Ah ! the 
Moor was going to Coimbra, and yet could not 
understand the word Coimbra; very probable. The 
fiist courtesy which I must seek from Don Frede- 
rick, is punishment for his insolence. But how is 
it,” continued the knight, always speaking to him- 
self, “that Don Frederick, so pious a prince, 
plao d by his title in the first rank of the de- 
fends s of our faith, suffers Moors in a town newly 
conquared, and from which he has but just ex- 
pelled them?” 

“ What can you expect, messire?” replied Mu- 
saron, without having been questioned. Is not 
Don Frederick the natural brother of the Lord 
Don Pedro, King of Castile?” 

“ Well, then?” asked Agenor, 

“ Well, sir, are you not aware, and if not, it is 
surprising, for the rumour came to France, that 
love for the Moors is innate in that family. The 
king, it is said, cannot dispense with them. He 
has Moors far counsellors, Moors for doctors, 


Moors for body guards; finally, he has Moorish 
women for his mistresses.” 

“Silence, Master Musaron,” said the knight; 
“ and trouble yourself with the affairs of the 
king. Don Pedro, a very great prince, and the 
brother of my illustrious friend.’’ 

“ Brother, brother,” murmured Musaron ; “ I 
have also heard say that that was one of your 
Moorish fraternities, which some day end by the 
bowstring or the sabre’s edge. I should prefer 
having for a brother Guillonnet, who tends goats 
in the valley of Andoru, while he sings : 

‘ On the mountains high summit 
A shepherd complains ;’ 

than having for such, the King Don Pedro of 
Castile. Such is my private opinion.” 

“ It is possible that such may be your opinion,” 
said the knight; “ but mine is, that you don’t say 
another word on the subject. When one comes 
to ask people’s hospitality, the least one can do, 
is not to speak ill of them.” 

“We are not visiting. Don Pedro of Castile,” 
replied the intractable Musaron, “ we are visiting 
Don Frederick, Lord of Coimbra, in Portugal.” 

“ Be it one or the other, hold your peace; for I 
insist on it.” 

Musaron raised his cap, and bowed, with a sar- 
castic laugh, which his long hair, black as ebony, 
falling over meagre and sun-burnt cheeks, ooii- 
cealed from his master. 

“ When your lordship is desirous of leaving,” 
he said, after a moment’s silence, “ his very humble 
servant is at his orders.” 

“ You must first ask that of your horse.” said 
Mauleon. “ But in any case, if he will not rise, 
we must leave him where he is; and when the 
evening comes, and when he hears the wolves 
howl, he will regain the town by himself.” 

And, in fact, as if the animal which owed the 
name given him by the squire to the valley in 
which he had first drawn breath, had heard ; the 
threat regarding him, he rose up with more alacrity 
than mighthave been anticipated, and came to pre- 
sent to his master a flank still streaming with sweat. 

“ Let us leave, then,” said Agenor. 

And he rode on, raising for the second time the 
vizor of his helmet, which he had lowered on the 
passage of the Moor. 

Had the Arabian chief been there, his piercing 
glance might have seen through the opening of 
the helmet a handsome and noble countenance, 
soiled by dust and heat, but full of character; a 
determined look, thin cut lips, expressive'of address, 
teeth white as ivory, a chin still devoid of beard, 
but brought out with that boldness, which an- 
nounces a most obstinate will. 

In fine, a young and handsome knight was Sir 
Agenor de Mauleon, and such he might think him- 
self as he glanced into the polished surface of his 
shield, which he had taken from Musaron’s hands. 

This instant’s delay had restored some vigour to 
the two horses. The rest of the road was there- 
fore gone through at a somewhat rapid step, cer- 
tainty of direction being insured by the colours of 
the Grand Master of Saint Jago floating on the 
palace. In proportion as they advanced, the in- 
habitants, in spite of the heat of the day, were seen 
to sally out from their gates. The trumpets were 
heard to resound, and the belfry chimes filled the 
air with the joyous and vibrating clusters of their 
notes. v 

“ If I had sent Musaron forward,” said Agenor, 
to himself, “I might really have supposed that all 
this rumour and ceremony were got up in my 


THE THON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


39 


honour. But though such a reception might be 
very flattering to my self-love, I must necessarily 
attribute all this noise to some other cause.” 

As to Musaron, who saw in all this agitation only 
the overt signs of rejoicing, he gaily raised his 
head, preferring in any case to be received by 
people in a merry mood, rather than by those in a 
mood of sadness. 

The travellers had not been mistaken. A great 
agitation pervaded the town, and, if the faces of 
the inhabitants did not exactly wear that smiling 
mask of joy which the ringing of bells, and the 
flourishes of trumpets seemed to enjoin, their phy- 
siognomies at least wore the expression of people 
just informed of important and unexpected news. 

As to inquiring their way, Agenor and his 
squire found it quite superfluous, as they had only 
need to follow the crowd, thronging towards the 
chief place of the town. 

At the moment that they were pushing through 
the crowd to arrive at this place, and while 
Musaron was dealing blows left and right, with 
the handle of his whip, to open a road for the 
noble knight who folLwed him, they suddenly saw 
arise before their eyes, shaded by lofty palm trees, 
and by syoamores bent in the direction which, in 
tempestuous weather, the sea wind gave them, the 
magnificent Moorish Alcazar, built by King 
Muhammad, and serving as a residence to the 
young conqueror, Don Frederick. 

However hasty they were to arrive, Agenor and 
his squire could not forbear remaining an instant 
in admiration before that vast and magnificent 
structure, everywhere embroidered with the finest 
fret-work of stone, and incrusted with marble 
mosaic work which seemed like plates of topaz, 
sapphire and lapis lazuli, mounted by some archi- 
tect of Bagdad, for a palace of fairies or houries. 
The West, and even that part of the west called 
the South of France, knew only its Romane* 
cathedrals of Saint Trophima, or its antique 
bridges and arches, but had not then an idea of 
those ogives and trefoils of granite, which the east 
was to design a hundred years later on the front 
of cathedrals, and the summit of towers. It was, 
therefore, a magnificent sight, that Alcazar of 
Coimbra, even for our ignorant and barbarous an- 
cestors, who despised, at that period, the Arabic 
and Italian civilization, which was later to enrich 
them. While the travellers thus remained im- 
movable and contemplative, they saw coming out 
from each of the two lateral gates of the palace, a 
troop of guards and pages leading, by hand, horses 
and mules. These two troops, each describing a 
quarter of a circle, returned to effect a junction, 
driving the people before them, and so marking out 
in front of the centre gate, to which one mounted 
by ten flights of stairs, a large empty space in the 
form of an arch, to which the fa9ade of the palace 
served as a chord. The mixture of the dazzling 
splendour of African with the more severe elegance 
of western costume, gave an irresistible attraction to 
this spectacle, and one of which Agenor and his 

» This is not to be confounded with Homan . The people 
and language to whom this term refers, were those of Pro- 
vence and Languedoc, though of course it is derived from 
the word Roman, and originally meant the same thing. 
The ‘ Romane’ language was the corrupt mixture of the 
Latin language, witt 3allicor Frankish idioms which formed 
the dialect of Provence, &c. It was also termed the Langue 
d’Oc, whence the name of that French province. The dis- 
tinction adverted to in the text, is between the round arched 
style M.d the pointed, in what is termed “ gothic” archi- 
tecture. Though it is a subject of controversy how far fhe 
pointed arch was introduced from the Mahommedan terri- 
tories, it aorsors certain that much of the ornate decoration j 
of that style has such an origin. — Tkahslatok. 1 


squire experienced the influence, while they saw- 
on one side, streams of gold and purple on the 
housings of the Arab horses, and the dresses of 
their Moorish riders; and on the other, silk 
ayid engraved armours; and above all that Frankish 
pride which seemed as it were engrained, even in 
the bearing of the beasts of burthen. 

As to the people, on seeing a# this show dis- 
played, it cried “ Viva /” as it Moes at the sight 
of all shows. 

Suddenly, the banner of the> Grand Master of 
St. Jago appeared under the high vault, carved in 
trefoil, which formed the middle gate of the Alca- 
zar ; this banner, escorted by six guardsmen and 
carried by a powerful man-at-arms, was borne 
to the centre of the empty space.” 

Agenor understood that Don Frederick was 
about to make some processions through the 
streets, or some journey from one town to another, 
and felt inclined, notwithstanding the exhaustion 
of his purse, to seek some hostelry where he might 
await his return; for he did not wish to disturb the 
arrangements of this departure by an inopportune 
appearance. 

But that very instant, he saw sallying forth 
through one of the lateral gates, the advanced 
guard of the Moorish chief, followed by that famous 
litter of gilt wood, so well shut in and balanced on 
the backs of four white mules, which had given 
such strong and such pious temptations to Mu- 
saron. 

Lastly, a louder flourish of trumpets and horns 
announced that the granu master was about to ap- 
pear, and twenty-four musicians, presenting eight 
in front, advanced from the archway to the steps, 
which they descended, sounding their instru- 
ments. 

Behind them bounded forward a dog, one of the 
vigorous yet slender race of the Sierra, with a 
head as pointed as a bear’s, an eye sparkling like 
that of a lynx, limbs sinewy as those of a deer. 
All his body was covered with long and silky hair, 
the gloss of which snoneun the sun, like a reflec- 
tion of silver; on his throat he wore a large collar 
of gold set with rubies, with a golden bell; his joy 
was visible in his bounds, and these bounds referred 
to a visible and also an unseen object. The visible 
object was a horse white as snow, covered by a 
great housing of pui’ple and brocade, which re- 
turned the dog’s caresses by a responding neigh. 
The hidden object was, no doubt, some noble lord 
detained under the archway, to which the dog im- 
patiently returned to re-appear joyous, and bound- 
ing the instant afterwards. 

Lastly, the object of the horse’s neighings, the 
dog’s boundings, and the vivas shouted by the peo- 
ple, appeared in his turn, and one only cry re- 
sounded, repeated by a thousand voices — “ Long 
live Don Frederick!” In fact Don Frederick was 
approaching, conversing with the Arab chief who 
walked on his right side, while a young page of 
attractive physiognomy, although his black eye- 
brows, and the slight contraction of his vermillion 
lips, gave him an appearance of firmness, walked 
on his left, holding open a purse full of pieces of 
gold, which Don Frederick, on arriving at the first 
stair, took out by handfuls, and, with a hand white 
and delicate as a woman’s, sent in a dazzling shower 
over the heads of the multitude, who redoubled its 
acclamation at this bourty, to which they had not 
been accustomed under the predecessors of their 
new master. 

This new master was of a stature which 
seemed majestic even on horseback. The mixture 
of the blood of Gaul with that of Spain had given 


40 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


him long black hair, blue eyes, and a fair com- 
plexion; and his blue eyes cast looks of so much 
mildness and benevolence, that many, not to lose 
sight of him for an instant, omitted even to pick up 
the sequins, and that the air round the palace 
everywhere resounded with benedictions. 

Suddenly, in the midst of this expansive re- 
joicing, whether it were chance, or the influence 
of momentary separation from so good a master, 
the trumpets and clarions, which had interrupted 
their clangour for an instant, resumed their notes, 
but instead of the gay and joyful flourish which they 
had just uttered, they now gave forth to the people 
a sad and mournful souhd, while the bells, those 
new inventions to interpret between man and God, 
instead of their swift and brilliant chimes, gave 
forth a dull, lugubrious, and prolonged toll, which 
resembled the tocsin. 

At the same time, the dog standing on its hind 
legs before his master, placed his two paws on his 
breast, and howled in so long, gloomy, and 
lamentable a manner, as to make the bravest 
shudder. The crowd became silent; and, from the 
midst of this silence, a voice went forth, — 

“Go not hence, grand master, remain with us, 
Don Frederick.” 

But no one could discover who had uttered this 
advice. At this cry, Agenor saw the Moor 
tremble and his face take an earthy colour, w hich 
is the paleness of those children of the sun, while 
his anxious glance sought to read in the very 
heart of Don Frederick, the reply which he would 
make to that general stupor and that isolated cry. 
But Don Frederick, caressing with one hand his 
howling dog, making a gracious sign to his page, 
and greeting the multitude who looked on him 
with supplicating eyes and joined hands, with a 
melancholy smile, said:-- 

“ My good friends, the king my brother has 
demanded my presence at Seville, where feats and 
tourneys await me, as rejoicings over our recon- 
ciliation. Instead of washing to prevent me from 
rejoining my brother and my king, rather bless 
the agreement between two brothers who love 
each other.” 

But instead of receiving these words with joy, 
the people listened to them with gloomy silence. 
The page slid in some words to his master, and 
the dog continued his howlings. During this 
time, the Moor never lost sight either of the 
people, the page, the dog, or Don Frederick 
himself. But the forehead of the grand master 
became for an instant overclouded. The Moor 
thought that he hesitated. 

“ My lord,” said he, “ you know that all men 
have their destiny inscribed before them, some in 
a book of gold, others in one of brass. Yours is 
written in the book of gold, fulfil, then, boldly your 
destiny.” 

Don Frederick raised his eyes, which for an 
instant he had held lowered as if to seek in the 
multitude a friendly face and a voice of en- 
couragement. Just at that moment Agenor w r as 
rising in his stirrups so as not to lose the least 
detail of the scene going on before him. As if he 
had guessed what the grand master was looking 
for, he raised with one hand, the vizor of his 
helmet, with the other he brandished his lance. 
The grand master uttered a cry of joy, his eyes 
sparkled, and a smile of delight, undulating over 
his lips as rosy as those of a young girl, spread 
over his whole countenance. 

“ Don Agenor!” he cried, extending his hand to 
the knight. As if the page had the privilege to 
read in his heart, he had no need to hear more, 


and, springing from the side of Don Frederick, he 
ran to the knight, calling out, 

“ Come, Don Agenor, come.” 

The crowd made room, for it loved all that was 
loved by Don Frederick, and at the same instant 
all eyes became fixed on the knight, whom the 
grand master received with the utmost joy, as 
Tobias did the divine companion sent him by 
heaven. 

Agenor dismounted, flung the bridle of his steed 
into the hands of Musaron, gave him his lancf, 
fastened his shield to the bow of his saddle, ar.d 
traversed the crowd, conducted by the page. 

The Moor again took his departure. He had 
just recognised the young Frankish knigl t wnvm 
he had met on the road to Coimbra, and whose 
squire he had left unanswered. 

In the meantime, Frederick extended his arms 
to Agenor, and this last flung himself into them 
with all the warmth of a heart of twenty years. 

It was well worth while to see these two hand- 
some young men, whose faces breathed all those 
noble sentiments, which so rarely complete the 
image of beauty on the earth. 

“ Do you follow me?” asked Don Frederick of 
Agenor. 

“ Anywhere,” replied the knight. 

“ My friends,” resumed the grand master, with 
that well-toned voice which was the delight of the 
multitude, I can now take my leave without year 
having anything to fear on my account; Don 
Agenor de Mauleon, my brother, my friend, the 
flower of French chivalry, accompanies me.” 

And, on a sign from the grand master, the 
drums struck up a quick march, the trumpets 
sounded a joyful flourish, the squire brought Don 
Frederick his handsome horse, white as snow, and 
all the people cried with a single voice, “ Long 
live Don Frederick, Grand Master of St. Jago; 
long live Don Agenor, the French knight!” 

At that moment Don Frederick’s dog went to 
look in the faces of the knight and the Moor. To 
the Moor he showed his teeth, with a surly and 
threatening growl; to the knight he offered a 
thousand caresses. 

The page passed his hand, with a sad smile, 
along the neck of the dog. 

“ My lord,” said Agenor to the young prince, 
“ when you begged me to follow you, and I replied 
that I would follow, I only consulted my zeal, as I 
did in coming from Tarbes here. I made the 
journey from Tarbes in sixteen days, that is hard 
marching; my horses, therefore, are nearly dead 
beat, and I cannot accompany your lordship much 

“ Nay,” said Don Frederick, “did I not say that 
my palace was yours? My arms and horses are 
at your disposal, as is all that I have at Coimbra. 
Go and seek in my stables horses for yourself, 
mules for your squire— or rather, no, no, do not 
quit me for an instant. Fernando will take charge 
of all that. Go and saddle Antrim, my battle 
horse, and ask, as you go by the squire of Don 
Agenor, which he prefers, a horse or a mule. As 
to your tired beasts, you care for them, and every 
good knight cares for his own; they shall follow in 
the rear-guard and be well attended to.” 

The page made but one leap and disappeared. 

During this time, the Moor, who believed- that 
the departure was about to take place, had 
alighted, to go round his litter and give some 
orders to those who guarded it. But seeing that 
the departure was delayed, and that the two 
friends being left together were about to exchange 
some confidential words, he quickly returned to 



where they stood, and took his station by the side 
of the grand master. « 

“ Lord Mothril,” said this last, “ the knight 
whom yoa see here, is one of my friends. He is 
more than my friend, he is my brother in arms; I 
bring him with me to Seville, for I wish to offer 
him to my lord, the King of Castile, as a captain; 
and if, after I have made the offer, the king con- 
sents that he shall remain with me, I shall bless 
him for doing so. For his sword i? of the keenest, 
and his heart even more valiant than his sword.” 

The Moor replied in excellent Spanish, although 
with that guttural accent which Agenor had 
already remarked when on the road to Coimbra, 
he had pronounced that single Arab word, after 
which he resumed his march. 

“ I thank your lordship for having told me the 
name and quality of the worthy knight, but chance 
had already made me meet the noble Frenchman. 
Unfortunately a stranger, a traveller, when, like 


myself, he is of a race which is the object of 
hostility, must often be on his guard against chance 
meetings. I did not therefore greet the Lord 
Agenor with the courtesy which I should have 
shown when I met him just now in the mow* 
tains.” 

“Ah! ah!” said Don Frederick, with curiosity, 
“ your lordships have then already met.” 

“Yes, my lord,’ replied Agenor, in French, 
“ and I must confess that the neglect of the Moorish 
noble to reply to the simple question which I ad- 
dressed him through my squire has given me some 
offence. We are more civil on the other side of 
the Pyrenees to our stranger guests.” 

“ Messire,” replied Mothril, in Spanish, “ you 
are in error on that point. The Moors are stili in 
Spain, it is true, but they are no longer in their 
own country; and at this side of the Pyrenees, 
except at Granada, the Moors are no longer any- 
thing more than the guests of the Spaniards.” 


42 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“See, now,” said Musaron. who had gradually 
drawn near the steps, to himself: “he now 
seems to understand French.” 

“Let this cloud between you disperse; the 
Lord Mothril, friend and minister of my Lord the 
King of Castile, will show some favour, no doubt, 
to the Chevalier de Mauleon, the friend and bro- 
ther of his brother.” 

' The Moor bowed without replying, and as 
Musaron, always anxious to learn wj^iat was held 
by the litter, was drawing nearer than Mothril no 
doubt thought fit, he descended the steps, and 
under pretence of giving some forgotten directions 
to his servants, he went and placed himself be- 
tween the squire and the litter. 

Frederick turned this moment to account by 
leaning towards Agenor’s ear. 

“You see,” said he, “in that Moor the man 
who governs my brother, and, consequently, the 
man w ho governs me.” 

“Ah!” said Agenor; “why those bitter words? 
A prince of your race — a knight of your valour - 
remember always, Don Frederick, should never be 
governed but by God.” 

“ And yet I am going to Seville,” replied the 
grand master, with a sigh. 

“ And why do you go there?” 

‘ The king. Don Pedro, lias prayed me to do so, 
and the prayers of Don Pedro are commands.” 

The Moor seemed divided between the fear of 
leaving his litter, and that of letting Don Frederick 
say too much to the French knight. The last pre- 
vailed; and he returned to w'here the two friends 
stood. 

“ My lord,” said he to Don Frederick, “ I come 
to announce a piece of intelligence to your lord' 
ships, which will clash with your project. I have 
been assuring myself on the subject w'ith my se- 
cretary, although previously nearly certain of it. 
The king, Don Pedro, has, as the commander of 
his guards, a captain of Tarifa, a valiant officer, 
in whom he places all his confidence; although 
he, or rather his ancestors, were born on the other 
side of the straits. I fear, therefore, lest the 
French knight should take useless trouble cv 
seeking the court of the king, Don Pedro. Where- 
fore, I should advise him to remain at Coimbra, 
the more so as Donna Padilla does not love the 
French; that is well known.” 

“ Truly,” said Frederick ; “is it so, Lord Mothril ? 
In that case, so much the better; I shall keep my 
friend by myself.” 

“ I did not come to seek Spain, but Portugal. 
I did not come to serve the king, Don Pedro, but 
the grand master, Don Frederick;” said Agenor, 
proudly. “ The service that I have sought, is the 
only one I wish for, and I hold it. There is my 
master:” and he courteously saluted his friend. 

The Moor smiled. His white teeth shone under 
his black beard. 

“Oh! what fine teeth!” said Musaron. “How 
w ell he must be able to bite.” 

A r that moment the page brought forward An- 
trim, the grand masters w r ar charger, and the 
Corouella, Musarofi’s mule. An exchange was 
instantly effected: Agenor de Mauleon mounted 
the fresh horse, Musaron the mule; the tired 
beasts w-ere placed in the hands of the grooms of 
the suite, and on the invitation of the Moor, Don 
Frederick descended the steps, and wished to 
mount in his turn. 

But a second time, the beautiful dog with the long 
white silky hair opposed himself to this design. 
He placed himself between his master and the 
burse, pushing back his master and howling. 


But Don Frederick thrust him aside with his 
foot, and, notwithstanding all the warnings of the 
faithful animal, vaulted into the saddle, and gave 
the order for departure. Then, as if he had un- 
derstood that order, and it had made him desperate, 
the dog sprung at the charger’s throat, and cruelly 
bit him. 

The horse reared, neighing with pain, and made 
a side bound which would have unseated any less 
skilful cavalier than Don Frederick. 

“Well, now f ! Alan,” said he, giving to his dog 
the name of the race to which the animal belonged. 
“Wicked beast, are you going mad?” And he 
gave it so violent a blow wuth Ihe thong of the 
whip which he held, that the animal rolled over to 
ten paces distance. 

“ That dog should be killed,” said Mothril. 

Fei nando looked askant at the Moor. 

Alan went to sit down on the. steps of the 
Alcazt r, raised his head, opened his jaws, and 
howled lamentably once more. 

Then all the people who had silently looked on 
at the passing scene, raised their voices, and the 
cry whica had previously been uttered by one voice, 
became a general exclamation. 

“ Do m t leave us, grand master, Don Frederick ! 
remain with us, grand master! what need have 
you of a brother, when you have a people? What 
does Sevilk promise which Coimbra does not 
offer? ’ 

“ My lord ! ’ said Mothril, “ must I return to the 
king, my master, and say that your dog, your 
page, and yoi.r people will not permit you to 
come?” 

“No, Lord M othril” said Don Frederick, “we 
depart — move on, my friends.” 

And saluting the people w T ith his hand, he 
placed himself at the head of the cavalcade, mak- 
ing his way through the multitude, wLich silently 
opened at his approach. 

They shut the gi ded gratings of the Alcazer, 
which as they shut creaked like the rusty gates of 
an empty sepulchre. 

The dog remained i n the steps as long as he 
could see his master, ano might hope that he would 
change his resolution arid return, but when he 
had lost that hope, when Don Frederick had dis- 
appeared at the turning of the street leading to 
the gate of Seville, he sprung forward in pursuit, 
and, in a few bounds, was ly his side, as if not 
having oeen able to prevent Lis placing himself in 
duiiger, h j at leas! washed to share itnvith him. 

Ten minutes afterwards all had left Coimbra, 
and taker, the road whence hadvome in the morn- 
ing, the Moor. Mothril, and Agei or Mauleon. 


CHAPTER IV. 

HOW MUSARON PERCEIVED THAT THE MOOR 
SPOKE TO HIS LI1TER, AND THAT THE L.TTER 
REPLIED. 

The grand master’s escort comprised in all thirty- 
eight men, including the French knight aod his 
squire, but without counting the Moor an l his 
twelve guards, pages, or lackeys; sumpter mules 
carried the costly and cumbrous baggage; for 
Frederick had already b«vn apprised a week that 
his brother awaited him a, Seville when Mothi 1 
arrived. When that took ] lace, he gave orders to 
depart on the instant, hoping that the Moor would 
be too fatigued to follow, and would lag in the rear. 
But fatigue seemed unknown co those children of 
the desert, and to their horses, which appeared to 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


48 


descend from those steeds sung by Virgil, whom 
the wind rendered fruitful. 

Ten leagues were performed that very day, then 
at nightfall, the tents were pitched on the decline 
of the mountains, at the extremity of which rises 
the town of Pombul. 

During this first day’s journey, the Mohr had 
kept most assiduous watch over the two friends. 
Under the pretext at first of making apology to 
the French knight, and afterwards of atoning for 
past rudeness by present courtesy, he had only 
quitted Agenor during the time necessary to inter- 
change a few words with the keepers of the litter. 
But however short were those intervals of absence 
to which he appeared driven by some feeling more 
strong than any other, they gave Agenor time 
to say to the grand master: 

“My Lord Don Frederick, have the condescen- 
sion, I beg, to inform me, whence comes this ofii- 
ciousness on the part of the Lord Mothril, in fol - 
lowing us and mixing in our conversation? He 
must, my lord, be very much attached to you; for 
on my part, I do not believe that I received his some- 
what tardy attentions, in such a manner as to in- 
spire him with a very ardent affection for me.” 

“ I know not whether Mothril loves me much,” 
said Don Frederick, “ but I know he thoroughly 
hates Donna Padilla, the king’s mistress.’ 

Agenor looked at the grand master with the air 
of a man who has heard, but has not understood. 
B.it the prying Moor came up on the instant, and 
Don Frederick had only time to say to the knight: 

“ Let us speak on some other subject.” 

Agenor hastened to obey, and as the thought 
naturally occurred to his mind: 

. “By-the-bye, noble Don Frederick,” he said, 
“ be so good as to inform me, how our honoured 
Lady Blanche of Bourbon, Queen of Castile, has 
accustomed herself to her residence in Spain. 
There is much anxiety afloat in France respecting 
that good princess, whom so many good wishes 
accompanied on her departure from Narbonne, 
where you came to rule her on the part of the 
king, her husband.” 

Agenor had not finished, when he felt his left 
knee briskly rubbed against by the right knee of 
the page, who, as if carried away by his horse, 
passed through, between Don Frederick and his 
friend, and while he made excuses to the knight 
for himself and his horse, cast at him at the same 
time a look fit to make the most indiscreet person 
keep his words between his teeth. 

However, Don Frederick understood that it was 
necessary to answer, as in his situation, silence 
might bear a still worse interpretation than 
words. 

“ But,” interrupted Mothril, who seemed to 
have as much interest in maintaining the con- 
versation as Frederick in letting it drop, “has the 
Lord Agenor heard no news of Donna Biancas ince 
she has been in Spain?” 

“Noble Moor,” replied the knight, quite sur- 
prised, “for the last two or three years, I have 
been campaigning with the great companies against 
the English, the enemies of my master, King John, 
who is a prisoner in London, and of our regent, 
Prince Charles, wh$ will one day be called Charles 
the Wise, so precocious is the prudence, so lofty 
the virtue he evinces.” 

“ Wherever you might have . been,” replied 
Mothril, “ I should have thought that the affair of 
Toledo made a noise which. must have reached you . 9 

Don Frederick grew a little pale, and the page 
put his finger to his lips, as a sign to Agenor that 
hq, ought to be silent. 


Agenor understood perfectly, and w as contented 
to mutter hrwardly, “Spain! Spain! land of mys- 
teries!” 

But that would not serve Mothril’s turn. “ Since 
you are no better informed than that, Sir Knight, 
on the subject of your regent’s sister-in-law, it is 
I who must tell you what has become of her.” 

“ To what purpose, noble Mothril ?” said Don 
Frederick; “the question asked by my friend Den 
Agenor is one of those common-place inquiries 
which are best answered by a yes or no, and not 
by one of those long stories which can possess no 
interest for any listener who is a stranger to 
Spain.” 

“But,” said Mothril, “if the noble Agenor is a 
stranger to Spain, at least he is not a stranger in 
France, and the Lady Bianca is a French woman. 
Besides, the recital will not be long, and it is 
necessary that the noble Agenor, as he is going to 
the King of Castile’s court, should know what is 
said, and what should not be spoken there.” 

Don Frederick heaved a sigh and drew' his large 
white mantle over his eyes, as if to avoid the last 
rays of the setting sun. 

“ You accompanied Donna Bianca, from Nar- 
bonne as far as Urgel,” resumed Mothril; “is this 
the truth, or am I in erior, noble Agenor?” 

“ It is the truth,” answered the knight, who, 
though the warning of the page, and the clouded 
countenance of Don Frederick had rendered him 
cautious, was incapable of dissembling the truth. 

“Well, then! she pursued her journey towards 
Madrid, -traversing Arragon and a part of New 
Castile, under the care of the noble Don Frederick, 
who conducted her to Alcala, where the royal 
marriage w'as solemnised with a magnificence 
.worthy of the illustrious rank of the parties es- 
poused; but on the ensuing morning, the motive 
has remained a mystery,” continued Mothril 
casting on Don Frederick one of those piercing 
and brilliant glances which w^ere habitual to him; 

“ on the ensuing morning, the king returned to > 
Madrid, leaving his young wife, rather a prisoner 
than a queen in the Castle of Alcala.” 

Mothril paused a moment as if to see whether 
either of the two friends would say anything in 
favour of Donna Bianca; but both were silent. The 
Moor then went on. 

“ From that moment, a complete separation tool? 
place between husband and wdfe. Nay, more, a 
council of bishops profiounced a sentence of di- 
vorce; there must have been, you will allow', Sir 
Knight, very grave motives of complaint against 
the foreign woman,” continued the Moor, with his 
ironical laugh, “ for so holy and venerable a body 
as a council, to break the bonds which policy and 
religion had formed.” 

“ Or else,” replied Frederick, incapable of longer 
concealing his secret sentiments, “that the council 
w'as entirely devoted to the will of the king, Don 
Pedro.” 

“ Oh,” said Mothril, with that apparent simplicity 
which renders a jest sharper and more bitter, 

“ how is it to be supposed that forty-twm holy 
personages, whose vocation it is to direct the 
consciences of others, should thus have slighted^ 
their own? It is impossible, or else what are we 
to think of a religion represented by such mi- 
nisters?” 

The two friends remained silent, 

“ About this time, the king fell ill, and it was 
believed that he was about to die. Then every 
hidden ambition began to reveal itself openly, and 
the Lord Don Henry of Transtamara ” 

“Noble Mothril,” said Frederick, availing hnn- 


44 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


self of tl is opportunity to reply to the Moor, 
“ forget not that Don Henry of Transtamara is my 
twin brother, and that I will no more permit him 
to be spoken of ill in my presence, than I will my 
brother Don Pedro, King of Castile.” 

“ J Tis just,” replied Mothril, “ excuse me, illus- 
trious grand master. In seeing him so rebellious, 
and you so affectionately attached to the king, 
Don Pedro, I had forgotten your brotherhood. I 
will therefore speak only of the Lady Blanche.” 

“Cursed Moor!” muttered Don Frederick. 

Agenor cast a look at the grand master, which 
seemed to ask, “ Do you wish to be rid of this man, 
my lord ? The business would soon be done.” 

Mothril appeared as if he had neither heard the 
words nor seen the look. 

“ I said, then, that ambition was aroused, while 
loyalty grew slack, and that at the moment Don 
Pedro was on the brink of eternity, the gates of 
Alcala, were opened, and on a certain night Donna 
Bianca left it, escorted by an unknown knight, 
who led her as far as Toledo, where she remained 
hidden. But Providence so willed it that our 
well-beloved king, Don Pedro, protected by the 
prayers of his subjects, and probably of his family, 
regained his health and strength. It was then 
that he learnt the flight of Donna Bianca, the 
assistance of the unknown knight, and the spot 
whither the fugitive had withdrawn. He ordered 
her immediate arrest. Some say that it was to 
re-conduct her to France, and that is the opinion 
which I hold; others say that it was to shut her up 
in a closer prison than the first. But in any case, 
whatever were the intentions of the king her 
husband, Donna Bianca, warned in time of the 
orders which had been given, took refuge in the 
cathedral of Toledo one Sunday, during the per- 
formance of divine service, and there declared to 
the inhabitants that she claimed the right of 
sanctuary, and that she placed herself under the 
safeguard of the God of Christians. It seems 
that Donna Bianca is beautiful,” continued the 
Moor, casting his eyes in succession on the knight 
and the grand master, as if to question them, “too 
beautiful even. For my part, I have never seen 
her. Her beauty, the mystery attached to her 
misfortunes, then, perhaps influences set to work 
long before hand, raised the feelings of all in her 
favour. The bishop, who was one of those who 
had declared the marriage annulled, was driven 
out of his church, which was converted into a 
fortress, and preparations were made to defend 
Donna Bianca against the guards of the king, who 
were marching thither.” 

“What,” cried Agenor, “the king’s guards 
were to snatch Donna Bianca from a church! 
Christians consented to violate the right of sanc- 
tuary.” 

“Why, yes, certainly!” replied Mothril. “The 
king, Don Pedro, had first applied to his Moorish 
archers, but these humbly submitted to him that 
the sacrilege would be still greater if infidels were 
employed in such a profanation, and Don Pedro 
understood their scruples. He therefore applied 
to Christians, who consented. What can you 
expect, sir knight! all religions are full of such 
inconsistencies, and those are the best which oon- 
tain the fewest.” 

“ Do you mean to say, infidel that you are,” 
said the grand master, “ that the religion of youf 
Prophet is better than the religion of Christ?” 

“No, illustrious grand master, I wish to say 
no thing of the kind, and God keep a poor atom 
of dust, like myself, from having any opinion in 
such a matt dr! No$ at this moment I am only a 


mere story-teller, and I relate the adventures of 
Madame Blanche de Bourbon, as the French say, 
or of Donna Bianca de Borbone, as the Spaniards 
call her.” 

“ Invulnerable !” muttered Don Frederick. 

“ So it was,” pursued Mothril, “ that the guards 
committed the frightful sacrilege of invading the 
church, and that they were about to carry away 
Donna Bianca, when suddenly a knight in complete 
armour, his vizor down, doubtless the same knight 
who had assisted the prisoner in her flight, burst, 
on horseback, into the church.” 

“ On horseback!” cried Agenor. 

“Yes, doubtless,” replied Mothril, “it was a 
profanation, but perhaps it might have been a 
knight on whom his name, his rank, or some 
military order conferred that right. Many orders 
of that kind exist in Spain. The grand master of 
St. Jago, for instance, has the right to enter 
helmeted and spurred into all the churches of 
Christendom. Is it not true, noble Don Fre- 
derick?” 

“ Yes,” replied Don Frederick, in an undertone, 
“ such is the fact.” 

“Well,” resumed the Moor, “ this knight entered 
the church, repulsed the guards, called all the 
town to arms, and at his voice the town rose in 
revolt, chased off the soldiers of the king, Don 
Pedro, and shut its gates.” 

“ But, since that, the king, my brother, has 
well revenged himself,” said Don Frederick; “ and 
the twenty-two heads which he had struck off in 
the great square of Toledo have, with good reason, 
caused him to be surnamed the ‘ Justiciero.’” 

“ Yes, but among those twenty -two heads, that 
of the rebel knight was not included, for who that 
knight was has never yet been known.” 

“And w&at has the king done with Donna 
Bianca?” asked Agenor. 

“ Donna Bianca has been sent to the Castle of 
Xeres, w here she remains a prisoner, although she 
has, perhaps, deservedly incurred a more severe 
punishment than a prison.” 

“ Noble Moor,” said Don Frederick, “ it is not 
for us to decide what punishment or what reward 
has been deserved by those by whom God has 
chosen to preside over nations. God only is above 
them; and to God alone it belongs to punish or 
reward them.” 

“ Our lord speaks worthily,” answered Mothril, 
crossing his hands over his breast, and bowing 
his head down on the neck of his horse, “ and his 
humble slave was in the wrong to speak as he has 
done.” 

It was at that moment that they arrived at the 
spot fixed on for the evening’s halt, and that they 
stopped to pitch the tents. 

As the Moor withdrew to assist in lowering his 
litter, Don Frederick drew near to the knight. 

“ Speak to me no more,” said he, with anima- 
tion, “ of anything concerning the king, Donna 
Bianca, or myself, before that cursed Moor, w hom 
I am every instant tempted to make my dog throt- 
tle; speak to me no more on these subjects till 
our evening meal ; we shall then be alone and shall 
be able to talk at our ease..” 

4 And will not Mothril, theMoor, be then, as he 
ahvays is, with us?” 

“ Mothril, the Moor, will be obliged to leave us 
together; he does not eat with Christians; besides, 
he has the litter to attend to.” 

“ It is then a treasure which that litter con- 
tains?” * 

“ Yes,” replied Frederick, with a smile*. “You 
are not mistaken, it contains his treasure.” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIOITT OF MAULEON. 


45 


At this moment Fernando drew near. Agenor 
had already in that day done so many indiscreet 
things, that he feared to compromise himself 
anew. 

But his curiosity, although repressed, was only 
cn that account the more active. 

Fernando approached to receive the orders of 
his master: for Don Frederick’s tent had now 
been pitched in the midst of the camp. 

“ Prepare our repast, good Fernando,” said the 
prince to the young man, “ the knight must be 
both hungry and thirsty.” 

“I will return afterwards,” said Fernando; 
“ yt u know I have promised never to leave you, 
and you know to whom I made that promise.” 

A transient blush rose to the cheeks of the 
grand master. 

“ Remain with us, then, my boy,” he said, “ for 
you we have no secrets.” 

The repast was served up under the tent of the 
grand master; Mothril did not appear at it. 

“ Now that we are alone,” said Agenor, “ for 
it is as if we were alone, since, as you have your- 
self said, you have no secrets to keep from that 
young man, tell me, my dear lord, what has hap- 
pened, so that in future I may not make any such 
false step, as I have just now done. ’ 

Don Frederick cast an anxious glance around 
him. “ A canvass partition is but a feeble ram- 
part to protect a secret,” he answered. “ One 
may look in below, and one may hear through it.” 

“ Then,” said Mauleon, “ let us speak of some- 
thing else; notwithstanding my very natural 
curiosity, I will wait. And, besides, were Satan 
himself to strive to prevent us, we should easily 
be able to find some moment, in the journey from 
here to Seville, to exchange some words, without 
hi ving anything to fear.” 

“ Had you not been so fatigued,” said Frederick, 
“ I would have invited ycfu to leave the tent with 
me, a,nd on foot, armed with our swords, wrapped 
in our mantles, and accompanied by Fernando, 
we should have gone to converse in some part of 
the plain, so open as to give us the certainty, that 
the Moor, even should he resume his first form of 
the serpent, should not be able to listen to us, 
within fifty paces distance.” 

“ My lord,” replied Agenor, with that smile 
which vigour of constitution and the inexhaustible 
confidence of youth bestow, “I am never tired. 
Often, when after having chased the isard* all 
day, on the most lofty peaks of our mountains, I 
returned in the evening, my noble guardian, Er- 
nauton de Sainte Colombe, would say to me; 
‘ Agenor, the footprint of a bear has been disco- 
vered in the mountain, I know its track, will you 
come and watch for it with me?’ I only took the 
time to put down the game, which I brought with 
me, and whatever the hour might be, set out again 
on this new pursuit.” 

“ Let us go, then,” said Frederick. 

They left their helmets and cuirasses, and wrapt 
themselves in their mantles, not so much on ac- 
count of the nights, though these are always cold 
in mountainous districts, as that they might re- 
main unknown, and leaving their tents, they took 
the direction which might lead them most speedily 
out of the camp. The dog wished to follow, but 
Don Frederick made a sign, and the intelligent 
animal lay down at the gate of the tent; he was 
so known to all, that he would have betrayed the 
incognito »f the two friends. At their first steps 
they were stopped by a sentinel. ' t 

• A mountain goat. 


“ Who is this soldier?” asked Don Frederick of 
Fernando, making a step backward. 

“It is Ramon, the cross-bowman, my lord,” 
answered the page ; “ I wished that a good w atch 
should be kept around your lordship’s bed, and 
laced, myself, a line of sentinels; I have, as you 
now, promised to watch over you.” 

“ Then tell him who we are,” said the grand 
master, “ there can be no harm in making our name 
known to him.” 

Fernando approached the sentinel, and whis- 
pered a word in his ear. The soldier shouldered 
his cross-bow and, respectfully making way, 
allowed the promenaders to pass. 

But they had scarcely gone fifty paces more, 
when a white and motionless figure shone out from 
the darkness. The grand master, not knowing 
who it was, marched straight on the phantom-like 
appearance. It was a second sentinel, wrapped in 
a hooded Moorish cloak, and who lowered his 
lance, saying, in Spanish, but with the guttural 
accent of the Arabs - 

“ You pass not here.” 

“ And this man,” asked Don Frederick of Fer- 
nando; “ who is he?” 

“ I know not,” replied Fernando. 

“ It was not then you who posted him?” 

“ No; For he is a Moor.” 

“ Allow us to pass,” said Don Frederick in Arabic. 

The Moor shook his head, and continued to 
present at the breast of the grand master, the 
broad and sharp point of his halbert. 

“ What does this mean? Am I then a prisoner? 
I, the grand master? I, the prince? Halloo! 
guards, to my side!” 

Fernando on his part drew a gold whistle from 
his pocket and sounded it. 

But before the guards, or even the Spanish sen- 
tinel, fifty paces behind the party, could appear, 
Don Frederick’s dog, which, hearing his master’s 
voice, understood that he called for help, ran 
up rapid and bounding, his hair bristling up, and 
with a single spring, the spring of a tiger, flew at 
the Moor, and caught him so sharply by the throat 
through the folds of his mantle, that the soldier 
fell down, uttering a cry of alarm. 

At the cry of distress, Moors and Spaniards left 
their tents, the Spaniards held in one hand a torch, 
in the other their sword; the Moors silently and 
without lights glided forward in the darkness, like 
animals of prey. 

“ Here, Alan!” cried the grand master. 

At this call, the dog slowly, and as if with re- 
gret, let go its prey and returned w ith backward 
steps, and its eyes fixed on the Moor, to crouch at 
its master’s feet, ready to spring fonvard again, 
should he give a signal. 

At that moment Mothril arrived. 

The grand ma i ter turned towards him, and with 
that double majesty which he possessed as a prince 
in heart as well as in birth, he said, “ Who has 
thought fit to post sentinels in my camp? Reply, 
Mothril. This man is one of yours. Who has 
placed him where he is ? 

“ In your camp, my lord,” replied Mothril, with 
the greatest humility; “Oh! I should never h&ve 
displayed so much presumption. I only ordered 
the faithful servant whom you see,” and he pointed 
to the Moor leaning on one knee and holding his 
bleeding throat with both his hands, “ to be on his 
guard against any nocturnal surprise, and he has 
either exceeded his orders, or failed to recognise 
your lordship ; but, in any cas'e, if he has offended 
the brother of my king, and that his offence be 
deemed worthy of death, he must die.” 


46 THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ Not so,” answered Don Frederick. “It is evil 
intention Avhich makes the culprit, and from the 
moment that you will answer for his being good 
Lord Mothril, it is I who owe him a compensa- 
tion for the attack made by my dog. Fernando, 
give the man your purse.” 

Fernando reluctantly drew near the wounded 
man, and flung hirn his purse, which he picked 
up. 

“ Now, noble Mothril,” said Don Frederick, 
with the air of a man who will not brook the least 
contradiction to his will, “ I thank you for your 
solicitude, but it is useless; my guards and my 
sword suffice to defend me; employ then your 
sword to defend yourself and your litter, and now 
that you know that I have no longer need of you 
or yours, return to your tent, Lord Mothril, and 
sleep in peace.” 

The Moor bowed, and Don Frederick passed on. 

Mothril watched his departure, and when the 
three forms of the prince, the knight, and the 
page had disappeared in darkness, he approached 
the sentinel. 

“ Are you wounded?” he whispered. 

“ Yes,” said the sentinel, gloomily. 

“ Severely?” 

“ The teeth of the cursed beast have entered all 
their length into my throat.” 

“ Do you suffer?” 

“ Much.” 

“ Too much to be able to avenge yourself.” 

“He who avenges himself, suffers no longer; 
give your orders.” 

“T will give orders when the time comes; let us 
depart.” 

And both returned to the camp. 

While Mothril and the wounded soldier returned 
to the camp, Don Frederick, accompanied by 
Agenor and Fernando, penetrated into the dark- 
ness of the country, of which the Sierra de Estrella 
formed the horizon; from time to time he sent 
forth either before or behind him, his dog of un- 
failing scent, who, had they been followed, would 
certainly have warned his master of the presence 
of a spy. 

As soon as he thought himself sufficiently re- 
mote to prevent the sound of his voice reaching 
the camp. Don Frederick stopped and laid his 
hand on the knight’s shoulder. 

“ Listen, Agenor,” said he, with that deep ac- 
cent wbftch shows that the voice comes from the 
heart, “never speak to me again of the person 
whose name you have pronounced; if you speak of 
her before strangers, you will make my forehead 
blush and my hand tremble; if you speak to me 
when we are alone, you will make my soul sink 
within me; that is all I can say. The unfortu- 
nate Donna Bianca has not succeeded in gaining 
the good graces of her royal husband; to that 
pure and gentle Frenchwoman, he has preferred 
Maria Padilla, the haughty and ardent Spaniard. 
A whole lamentable history of suspicion, war, 
and blood is wrapped up in the few words I 
have spoken. One day, if need be, I will tell 
you more; but till then, take heed, Agenor, and 
speak to me no more of her: I think of her 
only too much, when she is not spoken of.” 

At these words, Frederick wrapped himself in 
his mantle as if to confine some vast grief and 
bury it within himself. 

Agenor remained pensive 1 3 ar the grand master; 
he strove by recalling his recollections to penetrate 
those portions of his friend’s secret in which he 
might be useful to him, and to which he understood 
that the appeal made to him, was not foreign. 


The grand master understood what was pas&ing 
in Agenor’s heart. 

“ This is what I wished to tell you, my friend,” 
he added; “you will live henceforward near me, 
and as certainly I shall have no precautions to 
take against my brother, without my speakinsr to 
you of her, without your speaking to me, you 
will ultimately sound this abyss which fills me 
with dread; but for the present, we are going 
to Seville, the festival of a tournament awaits 
me, the king, my brother, wishes, as he says, 
to do me honour, and, in fact, he has sent me, 
as you see, Don Mothril, his councillor and his 
friend.” 

Fernando shrugged his shoulders, in sign at 
once of hatred and contempt. 

“ I obey, therefore,” replied Frederick, answer- 
ing his own thought; “but, in quitting Coimbra, 
I already entertained suspicions; these suspicions 
have been confirmed by the watchfulness which 
I see exerted around me. I have not two eyes 
only, I have also those of my devoted servant, 
Fernando; and if Fernando leaves me for some 
secret and indispensable mission, you will, at 
least, remain, since I love you both with equal 
friendship.” 

And Don Frederick held to each of the young 
men, a hand which Agenor placed respectfully 
on his heart, and which Fernando covered with 
kisses. 

“ My lord,” said Mauleon, “ I am happy to love 
and be beloved thus, but I come very late to take 
my part of so warm a friendship.” 

“You shall be our brother,” said Don Fre- 
derick, “ you shall enter into our heart, as we into 
yours; and now let us only speak of the entertain- 
ments and the fine lance strokes which await us at 
Seville. Come and let us return to the camp.” 

Behind the first tent which he passed, Don 
Frederick found Mothril on his feet and awake; 
he stopped and looked at the Moor without 
being able to dissemble the annoyance caused 
him by this sort of importunity. ^ 

“ My lord,” said the Moor, to Don Frederick, 
“ seeing that no one sleeps in the camp, a thought 
strikes me; since the days are so burning, might 
it not be . agreeable to your highness to resume 
your journey? The moon has risen, the night is 
mild and splendid, it would be abridging, by so 
much, the king, your brother’s, impatience.” 

“ But you?” said Frederick, “ but your litter?” 

“ Oh ! my lord,” replied the Moor, “ I and mine 
are at your lordship’s orders.” 

“ Let us go, then, I am well content,” said Fre- 
derick, “ give the orders for departure.” 

While the horses and mules were being saddled, 
and the tents struck, Mothril approached the 
wounded sentinel. 

“ If we made ten leagues this night,” he asked, 
“ should we have crossed the first chain of moun- 
tains?” 

“ Yes,” replied the soldier. 

“And if we leave to-morrow about seven in 
the evening, at what hour shall we be at the 
ford of the Zezere?” 

“ At eleven.” 

At the hour which the soldier had mentioned, 
they had arrived at the spot of encampment. This 
manner of travelling, as the Moor had foreseen, 
had been agreeable to all, and he had been a 
special gainer in being able more easily to with- 
draw his litter, from the prying glance of 
Musaron. 

For one single pre-occupation possessed the 
worthy squire - it was to know what species of 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


47 


treasure was contained in the gilt box which 
Mothril guarded with so much care. 

So, like a true child of French soil, he took no 
heed of the requirements of the climate jnder 
which he now was, but during the greatest . eat of 
the day, oegan to prowl about the tent. 

The sun sent forth vertical rays; the camp was 
entirely deserted. Frederick, to give himself up 
wholly to his thoughts, had withdrawn to his ten,t: 
Fernando and Agenor were chatting in their’s, 
when they suddenly" saw Musaron appear on the 
threshold. The squire had the smiling look of a 
man who had almost attained an object long 
sought after. 

“ Sir Agenor,” said he, “ I have made a great 
discovery.” 

“ What is it?” asked the knight, accustomed to 
me iacetious rallies of his squire. 

“ It is that Don Mothril speaks to the litter, and 
that his litter answers him.” 

“ And what do they say?” asked the knight. 

“ I have heard the conversation, well enough, 
out I have not been able to understand it,” said 
Musaron, “ as the Moor .and his litter speak 
Arabic.” 

The knight shrugged his shoulders. 

“What do you say to that, Fernando?” he 
ked. “ Here, if you believe Musaron, is the 
asure of Don Mothril which speaks.” 

There is nothing surprising in that,” replied 
page, “ as the treasure of Don Mothril is a 
Oman.” 

“ Ah !” said Musaron, somewhat out of counte- 
nance. 

“Young?” asked Agenor, with animation. 

“ Probably so.” 

“ Beautiful?” 

“ Ah ! you ask more than I can tell, sir knight, 
and it is a question to which few persons, even of 
the suite of Don Mothril could give an answer.” 

* Well! I will learn,” said Agenor. 

“ How so?” 

“ As Musaron has succeeded in gaining the tent, 
I can well gain it myself. We are accustomed, 
we mountain hunters, to glide from rock to rock, 
and surprise the isards at the summits of our 
peaks. The Lord Don Mothril will not be more 
subtle, nor more wary than an isard.” 

“ So be it!” said Fernando, carried away by the 
buoyancy of hair-brained youth; “ but on one 
condition — that I go with you.” 

“ Let us go, and during the time, Musari >n will 
be on the watch.” 

Agenor was not mistaken, nor were so many 
precautions found necessary. It was eleven in the 
forenoon. An African sun darted its burning 
rays, the camp appeared deserted; the Spanish and 
Moorish sentinels had sought the shade either of 
a rock, or of a solitary tree, so that had it not 
been tor the tents which gave a momentary ap- 
pearanv*e of habitation to the landscape, one might 
have believed oneself in a desert. The tent of 
Don Mothril was the most remote. To isolate it 
the more, or to give it a little more coolness, he 
had pitched it against a clump of trees. Into this 
tent he had introduced his litter, and before the 
gate dropped a large piece of Turkish stuff, which 
prevented the eye from penetrating into the 
interior. Musaron pointed out this tent as that 
which inclosed the treasure. Immediately, the 
two young men leaving Musaron where he stood, 
ad where he could see all that passed' on the side 
i f the tent looking towards the camp, made a 
Circuit and reached the extremity of the wood; 
once arrived there, hold mg their breath, stepping 


on tiptoe, carefully putting aside the branches 
whose rustling would have betrayed their presence, 
they went forward, and unheard by Don Mothril 
succeeded in reaching the circular canvass, in the 
centre of which were Don Mothril and his litter. 
They could not see, but they could hear. 

“Oh!” said Agenor; “the conversation will not 
tell us much, for they speak Arabic.” 

Fernando carried his finger to his lips. 

“ I understand Arabic,” said he, “ let me 
listen.” 

The page listened, and the knight remained 
silent. 

“ ’Tis strange,” said Fernando after an instant’s 
attention, “ they are speaking of you.” 

“Of me!” said Agenor; “ impossible.” 

• “ ’Tis so indeed, 1 am not mistaken.” 

“ And what do they say ?” 

“ Don Mothril alone has hitherto spoken. He 
has just asked, Is it the knight with the red 
plume?” 

At the moment that the page finished these 
words a voice of melodious vibration, one of those 
voices which seem to distil amber and pearls, and 
which wake an echo in the heart, answered, 

“ Y es, it is the knight with the red plume, he is 
young and handsome.” 

“Young, doubtless,” answered Mothril, “for he 
is scarcely twenty years of age; but handsome, 
that I must deny.” 

“ He bears his arms well and appears valiant.” 

“ Valiant, a plunderer! a Pyrenean vulture, come 
to swoop down on the carcase of our Spain.” 

“What does he say?” asked Agenor. 

The page repeated to him with a smile, the 
Moor’s words. 

The knight’s forehead flushed; he put his hand 
to his sword’s hilt and half drew it from the scab- 
bard. 

Fernando stopped him. 

“ Sir Knight, ’ Raid he, “ such are the wages of 
indiscretion; but without doubt I shall suffer in 
my turn; let us listen.” 

The sweet voice resumed still in Arabic. 

“ He is the first French knight whom I have 
seen. Excuse me, therefore, for being a little 
curious. The French knights are, it is said, 
renowned for their country. Is this one in the 
king, Don Pedro’s service?” 

“ Aissa,” said Mothril, in a tone of concentrated 
anger, “ speak to me no more of that young 
man.” 

“ It was you who first spoke to me of him,” re- 
plied the voice, “ when we met in the mountain, 
and after having promised me that we should halt 
under the trees, where he had forestalled us, 
pressed me, fatigued as I was, to undergo further 
fatigue, that I might arrive at Coimbra before the 
French knight should be able to speak to Fre- 
derick.” 

Fernando placed his hand on the knight’s- arm ; it 
seemed as if the veil was being torn and revealing 
the Moor’s secret. 

“ What does he say now?” asked the knight. 

Fernando repeated to him what Mothril had 
said, word for word. 

However, the same voice went on with a tone 
which went to the knight’s heart, although he did 
not understand the words. 

“ If he is not valiant,” said she, “ why do you 
seem to dread him so much?” 

“ I mistrust the whole world and dread no one,” 
replied Mothril. “Further, I consider it useless 
that you should busy yourself about a man whom 
you will soon see no longer.” 


48 


THR IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OF MAULKON. 


Mothril pronounced these last words with a tone 
which left no doubt as to their meaning, and 
Agenor understood from the movement made by 
the page that he had surprised some important 
secret. 

“ Be on your guard, Sire de Mauleon,” he said. 
“ Whether from political causes, or from jealous 
hatred, you have an enemy in Don Mothril.” 

Agenor smiled disdainfully. 

Both recommenced listening, but they heard 
nothing further. Some seconds afterwards, they 
perceived, through the trees, Mothril, who had left 
and was going in the direction of Don Frederick’s 
tent. 

“ It appears to me,” said Agenor, “ that now 
would be the morjnent to see and speak to this 
beautiful Aissa, who has so much sympathy for the 
knights of France.” 

“ To see her, yes,” said Fernando; “ to speak 
to her, no. For be assured that Mothril has not 
gone away without leaving his guards at the 
door.” 

And with the point of his dagger he made 
E narrow opening in the seam of the tent ; not so 
narrow, however, but that it allowed a look to 
penetrate the interior. 

Aissa reposed on a couch of purple stuff em- 
broidered with gold, she was buried in one of those 
silent and smiling reveries, peculiar to the women 
of the east, whose entire existence is absorbed in 
physical sensations. One of her hands held that 
musical instrument which is called the guzla; 
the other was buried amidst her black tresses 
braided with pearls, which gave more effect to her 
slender fingers with their nails stained with car- 
mine. A searching and humid glance, which ap- 
peared to seek that it might dwell on the object 
she saw in her mind, streamed through the 
silken fringes of her eyelids. 

“ How beautiful she is !” whispered Agenor. 

“ Sir knight,” said Fernando, “ consider, she is 
a Moresca, consequently, an enemy of our holy 
religion.” 

“ Pshaw!” said Agenor. “ I will convert her.” 

At that moment, Musaron was heard to cough. 
It was the signal agreed on, if any one approached 
the wood ; and the two young men, with the same 
precautions they had previously employed, re- 
turned by the road they had come. Arrived at 
the skirt of the wood, they saw, coming by the 
road of Seville, a small troop, consisting of a 
dozen Arab and Castilian horsemen. The troop 
went straight to Mothril, who, having perceived 
them, had halted some paces from the tent of the 
grand master. The horsemen came on the part 
of Don Pedro, and brought a new dispatch for Lis 
brother. This dispatch was accompanied by a 
letter for Mothril. The Moor read the letter 
addressed to him, and entered Don Frederick’s 
tent, inviting the new comers to wait an instant, 
in case it should please the grand master to ask 
for some explanation. 

“ Again !” said Don Frederick, perceiving Moth- 
ril at the door of his tent. 

“ My lord,” said the Moor, “ it is a message 
from our honoured sovereign, which gives me the 
boldness to come into your presence; it is ad- 
dressed to you and I would not delay transmit- 
ting it.” 

And he held out the letter to Don Frederick, 
who took it with some hesitation. But on read- 
ing the first lines, the forehead of the grand mas- 
ter brightened. 

The dispatch said : — “ My well-beloved brother, 
hasten, for my court is already filJed with knights 


of all nations. Seville rejoices in the expectation 
of the arrival of the valiant grand master of St. 
James. Those whom you bring with you shall be 
welcome, but cumber not your progress witli too 
long an escort. I shall glory in seeing you, and 
my happiness depends on seeing you speedily.” 

At that moment, Fernando and Agenor, who 
felt some anxiety on seeing this new r troop ap- 
proaching Don Frederick’s tent, entered in their 
turn. 

“ See,” said Don Frederick, holding out the 
king’s letter to Agenor, “ read, and see the recep- 
tion which awaits us.” 

“ Has your highness no words of welcome for 
those who have brought that letter?” asked 
Mothril. 

Don Frederick made a sign of the head and 
went out; then, when he had thanked them for 
promptitude they had shown, for he had just 
learnt that they had come from Seville in five 
days, Mothril, addressing the chief, said: — “ I 
shall keep your soldiers to do more honour to the 
grand master. For your own part, return to the 
king, Don Pedro, with the velocity of the swallow, 
and announce to him that the prince is on the 
march to Seville.” 

Then in a whisper: — “Go,” he said, “and tell 
the king, that I shall not return without the 
proof which I promised him.” 

The Arab horseman bowed, and without re- 
plying a word, or stopping to refresh himself and 
his horse, he started like an arrow. 

This whispered instruction did not escape Fer- 
nando’s notice, and although ignorant of the sub- 
ject, for he had not heard Mothril’s voice, he 
thought it right to tell his master, that the depar- 
ture of this chief immediately after his arrival 
appeared the more susnicious to him, since he was 
a Moor and not a Castilian. 

“ Listen,” said Frederick, “ when they were 
together, the danger, if such there be, can menace 
neither me, nor you, nor Agenor; we are strong 
men who fear not danger. But there is at the 
castle of Medina Sidonia, a weak and defenceless 
being, a woman, who has already only too much 
suffered for me, and on my account. It is neces- 
sary that you depart; it is necessary that you 
leave me; it is necessary that by some means, the 
choice of which I leave to your address, that you 
should gain her presence, and warn her to be on 
her guard. All that I should not be able to say 
in a letter, you will tell her by word of mouth.” 

“ I will leave whenever you wish, “ answered 
Fernando; “ you know that I am at your ord< rs.” 

Frederick sat down to a table, and wrote on a 
parchment some lines, which he sealed with his 
signet; as he concluded, the inevitable Mothril re- 
entered the tent. 

“ You see, ’ said Don Frederiek, “ I, on my 
own behalf, write also to the king, Don Pedro. 
It has seemed to me giving but a cold reception to 
his letter, to allow your messenger to depart with 
a merely verbal answer. To-morrow morning, 
Fernando will leave.” 

The Moor replied only by a bow; the grand 
master enclosed the parchment, in his presence, 
within a little bag, embroidered with line pearis* 
which he delivered to the page. 

“ You know what is to be done,” he said. 

“Yes, my lord, I am aware of it.” 

“But,” said Mothril, “as your highuess has 
good intentions in favour of the French knight-, 
why not send him instead of the page, who must 
be necessary to you. I would have him escorted 
by four of my followers, and by delivering to the 


TFTF TEON HANE: OR. THE KNTOHT OF MAULF.OM 


40 



king, the letter, his brother’s letter, he would at | 
once have earned those favours, which it is your 
intention to solicit for him.” 

The cunning of the Moor perplexed Don 
Frederick for an instant, but Fernando caine to 
his assistance. 

44 It seems to me,” said he to Don Frederick, 
“it seems to me, that a Spaniard should be sent to 
the King of Castile. Besides, your highness’s 
choice first fell upon me, and unless an absolute 
Drder is given to the contrary, 1 should desire to 
retain the honour of the mission.” 

“’Tis well,’ replied Don Frederick; “we will 
nuke no change in our decision.” 

“ His highness is the master,’ replied Mothril, 
“and we, whatever we are, have no other duty 
than that of fulfilling his commands, aLd I now 
ame to receive them.” 

** Op vhat subject V* 

3 


I 44 For our departure ; was it not settled that we 
should travel during the night, as we did yesterday ? 
Has your highness been incommoded with that 
nocturnal march?” 

44 Not so; quite otherwise.” 

44 Well, then, w r e have no longer more than on 
or two hours of daylight left,” resumed Mothril 
44 it would therefore be time to depart.” 

44 Give the orders, and I shall be ready.” 

Mothril left. 

' Listen!” said Don Frederick to Fernando; 
4 we have to cross the river which descends from 
the Sierra d’Estrella, and which flows into the 
^agus. There is always at the moment of 
passing rivers an instant of confusion; you will 
take advantage of it when you have once reached 
the opposite bank to immediately distance our 
body; for I think not, that you, more tnau 
1 are leairous of the escort offered by the Moo* 


50 


THE IRON’ HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


Only be very wary during- the journey, still more 
wary when you have reached the spot, for you 
know that she is rigorously watched.” 

Yes, my lord, I know it.” 

Mothril lost not an instant in giving the neces- 
sary orders. The caravan resumed its march in 
the usual order; that is, first came an advanced 
guard of Moorish horsemen to explore the way; 
then came Don Frederick, watched overby Mothril ; 
lastly came the litter and the rear guard. 

About ten at night they had crossed the Sierra, 
and were descending into the ^valley. An hour 
later, they could perceive through the trees grow- 
ing on the mountain’s slope, a bluish stripe like a 
long and winding ribbon, on which the moon, at 
different spots, threw out a million sparkles. 

“’Tis the Zezere,” said Mothril; “with the 
permission of your highness, I will have the ford 
sounded.” 

This gave Don Frederick an opportunity of 
being for an instant with Agenor and Fernando. 

Mothril, it is known, did not march without his 
litter; he therefore made a circuit towards the 
rear-guard, and then was seen to advance, accom- 
panying that treasure which had so much en- 
grossed Musaron, while he remained ignorant of 
its nature. 

“ It is now my turn to ask permission of your 
highness,” said Agenor; “we Frenchmen are ac- 
customed to pass any river we find in our way; I 
wish to arrive at the opposite bank at the same 
time as the Moor.” 

This gave an opportunity to Don Frederick to 
give his final instructions to Fernando, without 
any one overhearing them. 

“ Do as you will,” he said to the knight, “ but 
do not expose yourself uselessly, you know that I 
have need of you.” 

“ My lord,” said Agenor, “ we shall be met 
with on the opposite bank.” 

By making in a converse sense the same in suit 
described by the Moor and his litter, the knight 
followed by Musaron, disappeared in the wind- 
ings of the mountain. 


CHAPTER Y. 

THE PASSAGE OF THE RIVER. 

The Moor having left the first, was the first to 
reach the river’s brink. 

Doubtless, whether in his journey to Coimbra, 
or during some other, he had sounded the ford 
which he came to explore, for without any hesita- 
tion he descended to the river’s brink, losing him- 
self half way up his body amid the rose-laurels 
which, rn the southern parts of Spain and Portugal, 
almost always skirt rivers. On a sign from him, 
the guides of the litter took both their mules by 
the bridle, and after leaving the road which they 
were to follow pointed out to them by Mothril, 
which was rendered easy by a little grove of orange 
trees lying in that direction, they entered the river 
and prepared to cross it, an operation which they 
effected without the water reaching higher than 
their mules’ bellies. Notwithstanding the certainty 
which Mothril appeared to possess regarding the 
safety of the ford, he still followed their passage 
with his eyes, until he had seen his precious litter 
in safety on the other bank. 

Then only, he looked around him, and stooping 
down to the level of the rose-laurels : “ Are you 
there?” he asked. 

“ Yes,” replied a voice. 


“You can recognise the page well, can you 
not?” 

if, Twas he who whistled on the dog. The 
letter is in a bag which he carried hung 
by his side in a little pouch. It is that pouch 
which I require.” 

“ You shall have it,” replied the Moor. 

“ Then, I can hail him? You are at your p it? 

I will be there when the time comes.” 

Mothril mounted up the bank, and returned to 
Don Frederick and Fernando. 

During this time, Agenor and Musaron had 
arrived on their side at the slope of the river, and 
as he had said, without caring for the depth of 
water, the knight had bravely spurred his horse 
into the current. 

The river had little depth near its banks. The 
knight and his squire only became immersed 
slowly and gradually. When the passage w'as 
three-fourths made, the horse lost its footing; but 
sustained by the bridle and by the encouragement 
of its rider, it swam vigorously, and found earth 
again about twenty paces from the spot wFere 
it had lost it. Musaron followed his master like 
his shadow; and after having performed about the 
same manoeuvre, arrived like him safe and sound, 
at the other side of the current. According tc his 
custom, he wished to congratulate himself aluid 
on this feat, but his master, by pressing his finger 
to his lips, enjoined silence. Both then gain x 
the bank without other sound being heard than 
the splashing of the water, and without any sign 
having made the knight’s passage known to Mothril. 

Once arrived, Agenor stopped, alighted, and 
flung his horse’s bridle into Musaron’s hands; then 
describing a circle, he gained the other extremity 
of the orange grove, before w hich he could see the 
moon’s rays playing on the gilded cornice of the 
litter; besides, had he not seen where it was, he 
could easily have found it. The vibrating sounds 
of the guzla echoed through the night, and showed 
that A'issa, to beguile the time till her guardian 
should have passed in his turn, had had recourse 
to that instrument. 

At first they were only chords without con- 
nection, a sort of vague complaint which the 
absent fingers of the musician addressed to the 
winds. But to these chords succeeded wmrds, and 
to the knight’s great joy he recognised that these 
wmrds, though translated from the Arabic, w r ere 
sung in the purest Castilian. The beautiful A'issa 
then knew Spanish. The knight would then 
speak to her; he continued to approach, guided 
this time by the music and the voice. 

AVssa had opened the curtains of her litter on the 
side looking from the river, and the two guides, in 
obedience no doubt to their master’s orders, had 
withdrawn to twenty paces distance in the reai. 
The young girl reclined in the palanquin, lighted 
by the purest ray of the moon, whose path she 
followed through a cloudless sky. Her posture, 
like that of all the girls of the east, w r as full of 
natural grace and deep-seated voluptuousness. 
She appeared to inhale through all her pores, those 
perfumes of the night w r hich a warm southern 
breeze bore from Ceuta towards Portugal. As to 
her song, ’twas one of those Oriental compositions.* , 

* C’etait l’heure dusoir, c’6taitPheure voilee 
Ou, suspendant son vol, 

Sur la branthe deserte, au fond de la vallee, 

Chante le rossignol. 

C'etait l'heure du soir, c’etait l’heure tardm j 

Ou s’efface tout bruit, / 

Ou la rose inclinee otfre, ainsi qu’a la ri?e> 

Bon parium a ia nuit. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


51 


“ It was the hour of eve, the yeiled hour, when 
the nightingale ceasing to fly, sings on the lonely 
branch in the depth of the valley.” 

“ It was the hour of eve, the late hour when all 
around is hushed, when the drooping rose gives 
out its perfume on the river’s brink, as an incense 
to the night.” 

“ The air ceased its songs, the water hushed its 
murmur, kll things listened, and the star itself 
listened to the pure voice of the bird that sang.” 

“ He sang to the rose : Oh, flower of woman, why 
only open at evening? She answered: Why offer 
your song to souls only when heaven is darkened?” 
“ He replied : My song is for the flower of the river’s 
brink, which only opens by night. And my per- 
fume is for the bird whose timid notes are born 
when noise is hushed.” 

And in one soft mystery, the night blended the 
songs and perfumes of the heart. And morning 
saw the bird alighted on the earth, near the flower.” 

As she finished the last words, and while the last 
chords vibrated harmoniously through the air, the 
knight, incapable of longer mastering his im- 
patience, appeared in the empty space illumined 
by the rays of the moon, which intervened between 
the wood and the litter. A woman of the west on 
seeing a man thus suddenly emerge, would have 
cried out and called for help. The beautiful 
Moresca did neither the one nor the other; she 
rose on her left hand, and drew with the right a 
little dagger which she carried in her girdle; but 
almost immediately recognising the knight, she 
returned the poniard to its sheath, allowed her 
head to fall on one of her softly -rounded hands, 
and approaching the other to h,er lips, made him 
a sign to come forward without noise. Agenor 
‘obeyed. The long draperies of the litter, the 
trappings which covered the mules, formed a sort 
of wall, which rendered him invisible to the two 
guides, who were besides intent on the prepa- 
rations made on the other bank for the passage of 
Fernando and Don Frederick; he therefore boldly 
approached the young girl’s hand which was 
hanging out of the litter; he took it, and bringing 
it to his lips, said, “ A'issa loves me, and I love 
Aissa.” 

“ Are those of your country then necromancers,” 
she answered, “ thus to read in the hearts of 
women secrets which they have only uttered to 
night and solitude?’’ 

“No,” said the knight; “but they know that 
love calls to love. Have I been so unfortunate as 
to deceive myself?” 

“ You well know otherwise,” answered the 
young girl. “ Since Don Mothril has led me in 
his train, and has guarded me as if I were his 
wife, and not his daughter, I have seen the noblest 
Moorish and Castilian knights pass by me, with- 
out caring to turn my eyes from the pearls of my 
bracelet, or to detach my thoughts from prayer. 

L’air cessait tous ses chants, l’eau cessai*; son murmure, 
Toute chose ecoutait, 

Et l etoile elle-meme ecoutaitla voix p* re 
De l’oiseau qui chantait. 

II disait a la rose : Oh ! pourquoi, flew des femmes, 
i JCe t’ouvres-tu qu’au soir? 

Elledisa’t: Pourquoi n ofirir ton chant aux atnes 
Que quand le ciel est noir ? 

II repondait : Mon chant est a la fleur des rives 
Qui s’ouvre pourlanuit. 

— Mon parium a 1 oiseau dont les notes craintives 
osent qnand meurt le bruit. 

•Et la nuit confon lait avec un doux mystere 
Parfums et chants du. coeur. 

It In matin trou\a descendu sur la terre 

I/ oiseau pres de la fltur. • 


But it has not been with regard to you as to 
other men; from the moment I met. you on 
the mountain I have wished to descend from my 
palanquin, and to follow you. It may surprise 
you that I talk thus; but I am not a child of the 
towns; I am a flower of solitude, and, as the 
flower gives its perfume to him who plucks it, 
and then dies, so will I give you my love il you 
wish it, and die if you will not accept it.” 

As Agenor was the first man or. whom the 
beautiful Moresca had cast her eyes, so was she 
the first woman who, by harmony of look, v< ue, 
and gesture, had so sweetly appealed to his 
heart. He, therefore, was about to respond to 
this strange avowal, which, far from offering 
resistance, thus made the first step towards him, 
when suddenly a deep and agonising cry of pain 
resounded, and made both Agenor and the young 
girl tremble. At the same time the voice of the 
grand master crying from the other bank, 

“Help, Agenor! help! — Fernando is drown- 
ing.” 

The young girl, by a rapid movement, almost 
stepped from her palanquin, touched the young 
man’s forehead with her lips, and said to him 
these few words — “I shall see you again, shall I 
not?” 

“ Oh ! on my soul,” said Agenor. 

“ Go, then, to the page’s help,” she said. 

And she pressed him back with one hand, 
while with the other she closed her curtains. 

By a short circuit the knight reached the river’s 
bank in two bounds. In an instant he unfastened 
his sword and spurs. As, happily, he was without 
his armour, he rushed to the point where the 
commotion of the water showed that the page had 
disappeared. 

This is ’what had passed: After having, as we 
have already mentioned, seen his litter pass over, 
and given his instructions to the Moor hidden 
amid the rose laurels, Mothril had returned to 
find the grand master and Fernando, who, at a 
hundred paces from the bank, waited with the 
rest of their suite. 

“My lord,” the Moor had said, “the ford is 
found, and, as your highness may see, the litter 
has arrived at the opposite bank without any 
accident. However, for still greater surety, I 
will first guide your page over, then yourself ; my 
men will pass afterwards.” 

This offer answered so well the desires of the 
grand master, that he could not entertain to it 
the slightest objection. In fact, nothing could 
better promote the execution of the project agreed 
on between Fernando and Don Frederick. 

“’Tis well,” he said to Mothril, “Fernando 
will pass over first, and as he is to precede us on 
the route to Seville, he wdll pursue his way, while 
we complete the passage of the river.” 

Mothril ’bowed, as a sign that he saw no hin- 
drance to this desire Of the grand master. 

“ Have you anything to communicate to the 
king, Don Pedro, my brother, by the same 
opportunity?” asked Don Frederick. 

“ No, my lord,’’ answered the Moor; “my mes- 
senger has left, and will arrive before yours.” 

“ ’Tis well,” said Don Frederick ; “ take the 
lead.” 

The grand master devoted the brief space which 
remained between him and the river to a tender 
and prudent exhortation to Fernando ; he had 
much affection for this page, whom he had had 
near his person from a child; and the. young man 
was also deeply attached to him. Accordingly 
Don Frederick had not hesitated, young a* he was, 


52 


TFTE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OE MAULEON. 


to render him the confidant of his most secret 
affairs. 

Motbril waited at the river’s brink. All was calm. 
The landscape lighted by the moon, and broken 
by the great mountain shadows, here and there 
illumined by the glittering reflection of the river, 
appeared to belong to one of those fairy king- 
doms which are seen in dreams. The most mis- 
trustful man would have been re-assured by that 
silence and nocturnal limpidity, and would not, 
even if forewarned, have believed in the presence 
of danger. 

Fernando, accordingly, naturally brave and 
adventurous, as is usual at his age, felt not the 
slightest fear, and urged his horse into the river 
on the track of the Moor’s mule. 

Mothril marched first. During the first fifteen 
paces, the horse and mule had their footing; but 
the Moor, by slight degrees, inclined to the right. 

“ You are leaving the road, Mothril ! ” cried 
Don Frederick from the bank. “ Have a care, Fer- 
nando— have a care! ” 

“ Fear not, my lord,” replied Mothril, “ since I 
take the lead. Were there any danger, I should 
be the first to recognise its presence.” 

The reply was plausible. Therefore, although 
the Moor was gradually more and more diverging 
from the straight track, Fernando conceived no 
suspicion. Besides, he thought it might be a 
means employed by his guide to break more 
easily the force of the current. 

The Moor’s mule lost footing, and Fernando’s 
horse began to swim; but it mattered little to the 
page, who was swimmer enough to cross the river 
himself, had he been obliged to use his own 
exertions. 

The grand master continued to observe the 
passage with increasing anxiety. 

“You oblique, Mothril!” he cried - “you 
oblique. Keep to your left, Fernando. ’ 

But Fernando, who felt his beast swimming 
vigorously, and who besides was ahvays pre- 
ceded by the Moor, harboured no fear during 
this passage, which he looked on merely as sport, 
and turning round in the saddle, replied to his 
master — 

“ Fear nothing, my lord, I take the safe road 
since the noble Don Mothril shows the way.” 

But as he made this movement, a singular vision 
appeared to him; he believed that he saw in the 
track left by his horse, a man’s head which plunged 
immediately he turned round. 

“ Lord Mothril,” he said to the Moor, “ it seems 
to me indeed that we deceive ourselves. It is not 
here that your litter passed and if I am not de- 
ceived, I see it down there with the moon’s rays 
shining on it, close by the orange grove, and alto- 
gether to our left.” 

“ It is only a small extent of greater depth,” re- 
plied the Moor, “ and in an instant we shall regain 
the land.” 

“ But you are wandering from the track, you 
are wrong,” cried again Don Frederick, but 
already from such a distance that his voice scarcely 
reached the boy. 

“’Tis so truly,” said Fernando, beginning to 
conceive some anxiety <:n seeing the vain efforts 
made by his horse, carried, as by some unknown 
force, into the current, while Mothril, master of his 
mule, remained at some distance on b is left. 

“ Lord Mothril,” cried the page, “ there is some 
treachery in this matter.” 

Scarcely had he uttered these words, than his 
horse gave a sudden groan, and, staggering to one 
side, beat the water with violence, but w ithout 


I swimming, as previously, with his right leg. Im- 
mediately afterwards he gave another plaintive 
neigh, and ceased to swim w ith his left leg. Then 
being only kept up by his two front feet, the ani- 
mal gradually sunk his hind quarters under the 
water. 

Fernando saw that the moment had come to 
spring into the river, but he vainly strove to 
quit his stirrups; he felt himself bound to the 
horse. 

“Help! help!” cried Fernando. 

It was that cry of pain which Agenor heard, 
and which drew him from the ecstasy in which he 
was lapped by the aspect and voice of the beauti- 
ful Moresca. 

In fact the horse continued to submerge; his 
nostrils alono rose over the river’s surface, and 
snorted loudly, while his forefeet made the w ater 
spout up all around him. 

Fernando wished to cry for help a second time, 
hut carried away by that hidden force, which he 
had previously striven in vain to resist, he fol- 
lowed his horse into the depths; his hand only 
raised up to heaven, as if to demand vengeance or 
succour, waved for an instant above the surface of 
the gulf, but, like the rest of the body, it speedily 
disappeared, and nought was seen save an agita- 
tion mounting from the bottom of the river to its 
surface, w'here numerous bloody bubbles rose and 
burst. 

Two friends had sprung forward to Fernando’s 
assistance; on the one hand, as we have already 
said, Agenor; on the other, the mountain dog, ac- 
customed to ob< y the voice of the page, almost as 
faithfully as his master’s. 

Both sought in vain, although two or three times 
Agenor had seen the dog plunge in the same 
direction; at the third time the animal re-appearc-d, 
holding a shred of cloth in his breathless jaws. 
But as if, in tearing off this shred, he had done all 
that he could do, he sw r am towards the bank, and 
crouching at his master’s feet, gave one of those 
mournful and despairing howls which, when they 
occur during night, make the firmest hearts trem- 
ble — that shred of cloth w^as all that remained of 
the unfortunate Fernando. 

The night w as passed in useless search. Don 
Frederick, who had traversed the river without 
mishap, remained all night od the bank. He could 
not resolve to quit that moving sepulchre from 
which every moment he hoped to see his friend 
come forth. 

His dog howled at his feet. 

Agenor, gloomy and thoughtful, held in hand 
the fragment of cloth brought back by the dog, 
and appeared to wait for daylight with im- 
patience. 

Mothril who on his part had long remained 
crouching amid the rose-laurels as if looking for 
the young man, had returned with a countenance 
of despair, repeating “Allah! allah!” and 
seeking to console the grand master with those 
common-place phrases which are a grief the more 
to one who suffers. 

Day broke; its first rays lighted on Agenor, 
seated at the feet of Don j rederick : it was clear 
that the knight impatiently awaited that moment, 
for scarcely had the first rays pierced through thq 
entrance of the tent, than he approached that 
opening and looked with profound attention aft*. ' 
fragment of cloth torn from the doublet of the 
unfortunate page. 

This examination no doubt confirmed his sus- 
picions, for mournfully shaking his head — 

“My lord,” he said to the grand master, “ this 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


53 


is a very lamentable, and, above all, a very extra- 
ordinary Dccurrence.” 

“Yes,” replied Frederick, “very lamentable 
and very extraordinary! Why has Providence 
visited me with such a misfortune?” 

My lord,” said Agenor, “ I do not think it is 
Providence that is to be accused in all this. Look 
on this last relic of the friend whom you weep 
for.’’ 

“ My eyes would be worn away in looking at 
it,” said Don Frederick, “ and with weeping while 
I looked.” 

“ But do you see nothing in it, my lord?” 

“ What mean you?” 

“ I mean that the doublet of the unfortunate 
Fernando was white as an angel’s robe; I mean 
that the river water is limpid and clear as crystal, 
and yet, look, my lord, the tint of this shred is 
ruddy. There is blood on this cloth.” 

“Blood!” 

“Yrs, my lord.” 

“ Alan must have hurt himself in trying to hold 
up his friend; for you see he has the same stain of 
blood on his head.” 

“ I first thought as you do, my lord, but I have 
looked in vain for the trace of a wound. The 
blood does not come from the dog.” 

“ May it not be that Fernando had struck 
against some rock?” 

“ My lord, I dived in the spot where he dis- 
appeared, and all around there was more than 
twenty feet deep of water. But hold, here is 
something which may serve to guide us. See you 
this rent in the fragment of cloth?” 

“ It is the mark of the dog’s tooth.” 

“Not so, my lord; for here very plainly is the 
place where the dog has caught. This is an 
opening made by an edged weapon : by the blade 
of a poniard.” 

“Oh! how frightful an idea!” cried Don 
Frederick, rising pale, his hair on end, with rage 
and horror in his looks; “ you are right! you are 
right! Fernando was an excellent swimmer; his 
horse reared among my stud, he has a hundred 
times traversed bodies of w ? ater of far greater 
rapidity than this. There is a crime, Agenor — 
there is a crime!” 

“ I should have no doubt of it, ryp lord, could I 
see a cause.” 

“Ah! ’tis tru6. You know not, for your part, 
that on reaching this bank, Fernando was to leave 
me, not to rejoin the king, Don Pedro, as I had 
said to the Moor who must have disbelieved me, 
but to fulfil a mission which I had entrusted to 
him. My poor friend! my sure and faithtul con- 
fidant, whose heart was only open for me! Alas, 
it is for me, and through me, that he meets his 
death.” 

“ Even were it so, my lord, it is the duty of all 
of us to die for your highness. ’ 

“*Oh!w r hocan tell,” muttered Don Frederick, 
communing with his own thoughts, “ the frightful 
consequences which that death may produce.” 

“ Why am I not your friend in the same 
measure as Fernando?” sadly uttered the knight. 
“I should inherit the confidence which he en- 
joyed, and serve you as he served you.” 

“ Agenor, you are unjust,” said the prince, 
holding out his hand, and looking at him with 
that extraordinary sweetness of expression which 
one w r as always astonished to see on the counten- 
ance of such a man. “I had made two parts of my 
heart, one for you, the other for Fernando. Fei- 
nando being dead, you henceforward become my 
only friend, and I intend to prove it to you, by 


telling you wdiat was the nature of the mission on 
which Fernando was to be sent by me. He w as 
to carry a letter to your countrywoman, to the 
queen, Donna Bianca.” 

“Ah! that is the cause,” said Agenor, “and 
where was that letter?” 

“ That letter was in the pouch wdiich he carried 
hung to his waist. If Fernando have really been 
assassinated, and I now believe with you, that he 
has been; if the assassins have dragged the corpse, 
which has not been discovered, to some unfre- 
quented and distant bank of the river, my secret 
is discovered, and we are lost.” 

“ But if this be the case, my lord,” said Agenor, 
“go not to Seville. Fly! you are still near enough 
to Portugal to regain, wdthout mishap, your good 
town of Coimbra, and plane yourself in safety 
behind its ramparts.” 

“ Not to go to Seville, is to abandon her : to fly 
is to aw ake suspicions which do not exist, if the 
death of Fernando be only an ordinary accident. 
Besides, Don Pedro holds Donna Bianca, and 
through her, holds me. I will go to Seville.” 

“ Butin what way can I then serve you?” asked 
the knight. “ Can I not replace Fernando? Can 
you not give me a letter similar to that w hich you 
gave him, and a token which may promise me 
recognition? I am no boy of sixteen; I wear no 
doublet of thin cloth lined w ith silk; I have a stout 
cuirass, and one which has blunted poniards more 
dangerous than all the kandjars and all the 
yatagans of your Moors. Give me your letter. I 
will make my way, and if any man might need 
eight days to reach her, she shall have, I promise 
you, your letter within four days.” 

“Thanks! my brave Frenchman. But if the 
king be forewarned, the danger becomes doubled. 
The means which I wished to employ has not been 
good, since God has not willed that it should suc- 
ceed. We will now' take counsel of circumstances. 
We will continue our journey as if nothing had 
happened. At tw r o days’ march from Seville and 
at a moment when the affair is out of mind, you 
will leave me, you will make a circuit, and while 
I enter Seville by one gate, you will enter it by 
another. Then in the evening, you will glide into 
the royal Alcazar, where you will remain hidden in 
the first court, that wdiich is shaded by majestic 
plantains, and in the midst of w r hich there is a 
marble fountain with lions’ heads; you will see 
windows with purple curtains, they mark the 
apartment I occupy when I visit my brother. At 
midnight, come under those windows; I shall then 
know, from the reception met wdth from Don 
Pedro, w hat we have to fear, or to hope. I will 
speak to you, and if 1 cannot speak, I will fling 
you a note wdiich will tell you what it is needful 
to do. Swear only to execute on the instant, 
whatever I may tell you, be it by word of mouth, 
or be it in writing.” 

“ I swear on my soul, my lord,” said Agenor, 
“ that I will fulfil your will in every point.” 

“’Tis well!” said Don Frederick, “I now feel 
more tranquillised. Poor Fernando !” 

“ My lord,” said Mothril, appearing at the 
entrance of the tent, “does your highness recollect 
that we have performed this night only one half 
of our journey? If it please you to order our de- 
parture, we shall arrive within three or four hours, 
under shelter of a forest, which I know from 
having already halted there on my journey hither, 
and we would there pass away the heat of the 
day.” 

“ Let us leave,” said Don Frederick; “ nothing 
retains me longer here, now that I have. lost all 


54 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MATJLEON. 


hope of seeing Fernando again. And the cara- 
van. resumed it’s march, not however, without the 
grand master and the knight often turning their 
eyes back to the river, and often repeating also, 
like a sigh of pain from their heart: 

“ Poor Fernando! poor Fernando!” 

Tiius continued Don Frederick’s journey to 
Seville. 

CHAPTER VI. 

KOW MOTHRIL ANTICIPATED THE GRAND MASTER 
WITH THE KING, DON PEDRO, OF CASTILE. 

There are towns which, from the natural situa- 
tion they occupy, and from the treasures of beauty 
with which men have enriched them, appear to be 
not only in fact, but of right, queens of the country 
which surrounds them; such is Seville, that queen 
of beautiful Andalusia, itself one of the royal 
countries of Spain. And thys the Moors who had 
rejoicingly conquered and lovingly preserved it, 
quitted it with grief, leaving it that eastern 
-»rown which, during three centuries they had 
placed on its head. One of the palaces, with which 
during their sojourn they had endowed this 
fav< .trite sultana was that which Don Pedro now 
inhabited, and into which we are about to intro- 
duce our readers. 

On a marble terrace, where the odorous trees of 
the orange and the lemon, form, with pomegranate 
tree* and myrtles, a vault so thick that the rays 
ot the sun fail to pierce it, Moorish slaves are 
waiting till the burning beams of day shall have 
extinguished their dames in the sea. Then the 
evening breeze arises: the slaves sprinkle the 
marble pavement with rose and benzoin water, and 
the passing breeze wafts through the air natural 
and factitious perfumes, mingled like ornament 
and bea uty. Moorish slaves then bring under the 
cover formed by the hanging gardens of this other 
Babylon, beds of silk, and downy cushions, for 
with the night, Spain will revive, with the coolness 
of evening, streets, walks, and terraces will become 
re-peopled. 

S' a m the tapestry which separates the terrace from 
a vast apartment is raised, and a man appears with a 
beautiful woman leaning on his arm. She is from 
twenty-four to twenty-five years of age, with 
glossy black hair, black eyes, and that smooth 
brown skin, which is the fresh complexion of 
southern women; he, on the other hand, is twenty- 
eight years of age, fair, of tall stature, and bears 
in his blue eyes and in his complexion, which the 
sun of Spain has failed to tan, indelible character- 
istics of northern European race. 

That woman is Donna Maria Padilla, that man 
the king, Don Pedro. 

Both came forw ard silently under the canopy of 
verdure, but it was easy to perceive that their 
silence arose not from the absence, but rather from 
over fullness of thought. 

The beautiful Spaniard further has not a look 
either for the Moors who wait her orders, or for all 
the splendour which surrounds her. Although born 
amid mediocrity,* almost amid want, she has been 
accustomed to all that is most dazzling in royal 
luxury, since she has played, as a child plays with 
a toy. with the sceptre of the King of Castile. 

‘• Pedro,” she said at last, breaking the first 
that silence which both seemed to hesitate break- 

• l itis must be considered to refer inly to the purse, as 
•be is found to remark a little furthei on, that h. r family 
ta i among the most illustrious in Spain.— Translator. 


ing, “ you are wrong in pretending that I am 
honoured as ytmr friend and mistress; I am an 
humbled slave, that is all, my lord.” 

Pedro smiled, and gave a slight shrug with his 
shoulders. 

“Yes, doubtless,” resumed Maria, “an hum- 
bled slave. I have said, and I repeat it.” 

“How so? explain yourself,” said the king. 

“Oh! ’tis very easy, my lord? Here is the 
grand master of St. James coming, it is said, to 
Seville, for a tourney which you are preparing. 
Ilis apartment, augmented at the expense of mine, 
is adorned with the most precious tapestries, and 
the finest furniture, which has been removed 
from the different rooms of the palace.” 

“ He is my brother,” said Don Pedro. 

Then, he added with a tone of which the ex- 
pression was understood by bimself alone — 

“ My well-beloved brother.” 

“Your brother,” she replied; “I thought, for 
my part, that he was the brother of Henry of 
Tran stamara. ’ 

“Yes, madame; but they are both sons of the 
king, Don Alphonso, my father.” 

“ And you treat him as a king; I understand 
his having, in factf, almost a right to such honours, 
since he is beloved by a queen.” 

“ I understand you not,” said Don Pedro, grcw r - 
ing pale in his own despite, but without any other 
sign than this involuntary paleness, indicating that 
the blow had struck to the heart. 

“Ah! Don Pedro, Don Pedro,” said Maria 
Padilla, “ you are either very blind, or much of a 
philosopher.” 

The king made no reply; he only turned, as on 
purpose, towards the east. 

“ Well! what do you look for?” asked the im- 
patient Spaniard; “is it for the arrival of your 
well-beloved brother?” 

“ No, madame,” replied Don Pedro. “ I look 
to see whether from the royal terrace where we stand 
we can behold the towers of Medina Sidonia.” 

“ Yes,” answered Maria Padilla; “ I well know 
that you are about to make the same reply as 
always, that the faithless queen is a prisoner; 
and, how\is it that you, who are surnamed the 
Justiciero, punish one without punishing the other? 
How is it that the queen remains a prisoner, while 
her accomplice is loaded with honours?” 

“What has my brother, Don Frederick, done 
to you, madame?” asked Don Pedro. 

“ If you loved me, you w r ould not ask me what 
he has done; and you would already have 
avenged me. What has he done? He has pur- 
sued me, not with his hatred, that would be 
nothing, hatred honours, but with his contempt; 
and you should punish whoever despises the 
weman whom you love not, it is true; but whom 
you have admitted to your bed, and who alone 
has borne you sons.” 

The king gave no reply; his was an impenetra- 
ble soul, in which it was impossible to read 
through the layer of bronze which covered it. 

“ Oh ! how fine it is to adorn oneself with the 
semblano« of virtues one does not possess,” dis- 
dainfully resumed Maria Padilla; how easy is it 
for artful women to veil their shameful passions 
under a look of timidity, to clothe their scanda- 
lous conduct, under the prejudice which says 
that the daughters of Gaul are cold and insensi- 
ble when compared with the women of Spain.” 

Don Pedro continued silent. 

“Pedro, Pedro,” recommenced his mistress, 
irritated by seeing that her sarcasms glanced ot¥ 
the invulnerable sovereign. “ Pedro, I think yea 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


55 


would dc better to listen to the yoice of your 
people. Do you hear it exclaiming: ‘ Ah! Maria 
Padilla, the courtezan of the kin s , and disgrace to 
the kingdom; behold her guilty and criminal that 
she is, she dares to love her prince, not for his 
rank, for he is married, but for himself. While 
other women were conspiring against his honour, 
she was yielding him her own, counting on his 
protection and gratitude. When his wives, for 
the Christian Pedro has as many as a Moorish 
sultan, whJe his wives, even though faithless, re- 
main unfruitful, she has borne him two sons, whom 
she loves; what infamy! Let us curse Maria 
Padilla, as La Cava* was cursed; these women are 
always the destruction of the people and of their 
king.’ Such is the voice of Spain. Listen to it 
then, Don Pedro ! But were I queen, they would 
say, ‘ Poor Maria Padilla, you were very happy 
when you were a virgin and played on the banks of 
theGuadalopa with the virgins, your companions! 
Poor Maria Padilla, you were very happy, 
when the king stole your happiness by pretending 
to love you! Your family was so illustrious that 
the first nobles of Castile aspired to your hand; 
but you have committed the fault of preferring a 
king. Poor young inexperienced girl, ignorant 
ss yet that kings are not men ; he deceives you 
however, you who never deceived him, even in 
thought, even in a dream! He gives his heart 
to other mistresses, forgetting your fidelity, 
your devotion, your fruitfulness.’ Were T queen, 
they would say all this, and I should pass for a 
saint,, yes, for a saint. Is it not the title which is 
given to a woman I know, who has betrayed her 
husband with his brother?” 

Don Pedro, whose front had become gradually 
clouded, passed his hand over his forehead, and 
re-appeared calm and almost smiling. 

“Li fine, madame,” he said, “what is your 
aim? to be my queen? You know well that is 
impossible since I am already married, and even 
twice over. Ask of me things which are possible, 
and I will grant them.” 

“ 1 thought I might ask what Juana de Castro 
asked for and obtained.” 

“ Juana de Castro asked for nothing, madame. 
It was necessity, that inexorable queen of kings, 
which asked for her. She had a powerful family, 
and at the moment that I was making myself 
external enemies by repudiating Blanche, it was 
necessary that I should obtain allies within. And 
now, do you wish me to deliver my brother Fre- 
derick to gaolers at the moment when war 
threatens, when my other brother, Don Henry of 
Transtamara, is stirring up Arragon against me, 
has taken Toledo, escaladed Toro, which I am 
forced to re-conquer from my relations with greater 
difficulty than I should have in regaining Grenada 
from the Moors? Do you forget that for some 
short time, I who hold others in prison, have been 
a prisoner myself, forced to dissemble, to curb the 
head, to smile on those whom I wish' d to sting, to 
creep like a child under the aspiring will of my 
mother; that it cost me six months of dissimulation 
ere I could find one day the gates of my own 
palace open for a minute; that I was compelled to 
fly to Segovia, to tear piece by piece the inheri- 
tance left me by my father from the hands of 
those who had seized ijt, to have Gariclasso 
poniarded at Burgos, Albuquerquo poisoned at 

* La Cava was the mistress of Don Roderick, with whom 
expired the Visigoth ic dynasty of Spain The invasion of 
the Moore i s reported to have arisen ITom the invitation of 
Count Jur.an, her father, in revenge for the lapse of his daugh- 
ter. Bu t tije Saracenic crescent would no doubt have found 
its way thither, without any such pretext. — Translator. 


Toro; to have twenty-two heads struck off at 
Toledo; and to change my name ol Justicer into 
that of cruel, without knowing which of the two 
will be assigned me by posterity? And as to the 
Frenchwoman, as you term her, is it not enough 
that, for a supposed crime, she should be secluded 
in Medina Sidonia, almost in solitude, almost in 
poverty, and wholly despised, because it has pleased 
you to see her so treated?” 

“ Ah ! it is not because I have been pleased to see 
her thus treated,” cried Maria Padilla, with flushing 
eyes ; “ it is because you have been dishonoured by 
her.” 

“ No, madam,” said Don Pedro, “ no, I have not 
been dishonoured, because I am not one of those 
who make the honour or dishonour of a king 
repose on anything so fragile as the virtue of a 
woman. No, I have not been dishonoured by the 
Queen Blanche; but I had been forced to marry 
her against my own wish, and I seized the oppor- 
tunity, which she and my brother had the impru- 
dence to furnish me. I feigned to conceive, re- 
garding her, the most terrible suspicions. I have 
humiliated and degraded her, though she is the 
daughter of the first house in Christendom. 
Therefore, if you love me as much as you say, 
you should pray to God that no misfortune may 
befall me, for the Regent, or rather the King of 
France, is her brother-in-law. He is a great prince, 
madam, who possesses powerful armies, com- 
manded by the first general of the time, by Messire 
Bertrand Dugueselin.* 

“Ah! king, you are afraid!” said Maria Padilla, 
preferring the king’s anger to that cold impassibi- 
lity which made Don Pedro, when master of him- 
self, the most dangerous prince on earth. 

“I am afraid of you, I admit, madam,” said the 
king; “ for you alone have hitherto had the power 
to make me commit the only faults which I have 
committed.” 

“ I think that a king who seeks for his counsellors 
and agents among Moors and Jews, should throw thi 
blame of his faults on others than the woman he loves.” 

“ Ah! you also then have fallen into the vulgar 
error,” said Don Pedro, shrugging his shoulders. 
“ My Moorish counsellors, my Jewish agents ! 
Well, madam, I demand counsel from those who 
have understanding, resources from those who have 
money. If you and those who accuse me, would 
take the trouble to glance at the state of Europe, 
you would see that it is among the Moors that 
civilization is to be found — among the Jews wealth. 
Who have built the mosque of Cordova, the 
Alhambra of Grenada, all the Alcazars which 
make the ornament of our towns? even the palace, 
where we now stand, who have made all that? 
The Moors. In whose hands do we find trade? — 
in whose hands industry?! In whose hands do we 
find the gold of thoughtless nations heaped up? 

* I may here observe, that there would be an anachronism 
in representing Bertrand Dugueselin, as, at this time, holding 
high command in the armies of France, unless 1361, at the 
commencement of Chapter II., be a misprint for 13> 4. In the 
first year, John, the then King of France, had just returned 
’ to his country in virtue of the treaty Of Bretagny, by which 
an enormous sum was paid for his personal ransom from the 
hands of the English, and the province of Aquitaine, for- 
merly held as a fief, vested in full sovereignty in EdwarO 
III. and his heirs. In 1361, Charles was not regent, John 
having returned to his kingdom, but he was again sojbefore 
1364, John having returned of his cwn accord to England, 
where he died in the same year. I)ugL tselin could not, during’ 
the life-time of the Black Prince or of John, Lord Chandoa, 
be considered the first captain of his time, since he was twice 
defeated and taken prisoner by them. — Translator. 

t Industry and trade are nearly allied, but are not to be 
confounded. Trade is the transfer of those cornmodiuea 
which industry produces, in the past as in the pre.H.-oC 
I the Jew has always busied himself with the transfer of com- 


56 


THE IRON - HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


In th( hands of the Jews! 'What are we to ex- 
pect from our half barbarous Christians? Fruit- 
less blows with lances, great battles which cause 
nations to bleed. But who looks on at the insen- 
sate pranks of these nations? Who flourish, sing, 
love, and enjoy life, in the neighbourhood of all 
these convulsions? The Moors! Who pounce on 
their corpses to despoil them? The Jews. You 
must see clearly therefore that Moors and Jews 
are the fit ministers, the fit agents of a king 
who wishes to preserve his freedom and inde- 
pendence from the kings, his neighbours! Well, 
that is what I am trying, what I have been 
attempting for six years, what has raised against 
me so much enmity, and has caused so many 
calumnies to see the light. Those who wished to 
become my ministers, those who wished to become 
my agents, have become my implacable enemies, 
and ’tis no more than natural; T had done nothing 
for them, I wished nothing from them, and I kept 
them at a distance. But you, on the contrary, 
Maria, I took you from where you were placed; I 
brought you as close to my throne as I could; I 
have given you as large a share of my heart, as a 
king can dispose of; in fine, I have loved you, I, 
who am accused of never having loved anything.” 

“Ah! had you loved me,” replied Maria, with 
that female pertinacity which never replies to the 
arguments with which their foolish accusations 
are refuted, but only to their own thoughts; “had 
you loved me, I should not be doomed to tears and 
shame for having been devoted to my king; had 
you loved me, I should have been avenged.” 

“ Eh ! forsooth !” said Don Pedro, “ wait and you 
will be avenged if there be reason why you should. 
Do you believe that I bear Don Frederick 
next my heart? Do you believe that I would be 
otherwise than very happy to have done with the 
whole bastard race? Well then, if Don Frederick 
has really outraged you, which I doubt — ” 

“And is it not outraging me,” replied Maria 
Padilla, pale with rage, “ is it not outraging me 
to counsel you, as he has done, not to keep me as 
your mistress, and to take back the Queen Blanche 
as your wife?” 

“ And you are sure that he gave me this counsel, 
Maria?” 

“ Oh, yes, I am sure,” said the Spaniard, with a 
threatening gesture, “ sure as that I live at this 
moment.” 

“ Then, my dear Maria,” replied Don Pedro 
with that phlegm which is so exasperating for 
people who allow themselves to be carried away 
by anger, “ifDon Frederick advised me not to keep 
you as a mistress, and to take back the Queen 
Blanche as my wife, you must be wrong in accus- 
ing him of being the lover of this very Queen 
Blanche: otherwise you, jealous as you are, may 
understand they would be very happy to enjoy so 
great a liberty, as that which is left to a wife one 
despises.” 

“ You are too great an orator for me, Don 
Pedro,” replied Maria, rising up, incapable of 
longer controlling her fury. “ I salute your ma- 
jesty, and will endeavour to avenge myself alone.” 

Don Pedro followed her with his eye without a 
word, saw her depart without recalling her by a 
single sign, and yet this was the only woman who 
had ever made him feel any other sentiment than 
that of the satisfaction of physical ^passion. But 
even on that account, he feared his mistress as he 

modities from cast-olf clothes to state securities, but has not 
concerned himself with their production. The poor Jew in 
the present day is a hawker, the rich Jew a discounter ; very 
rarely, indeed, is the fksi a woikman, or ihe second an ea- 
(4sjer.~ Translators I 


would have feared an enemy, lie stifled, ther*? 
fore, that weak feeling of pity which he fob- 
stirring at the bottom of his heart, and stretched 
himself on the cushions whence Maria Padilla had 
risen, his eye fixed on the road to Portugal; for 
from the balcony where the king reposed, one 
might see over plain, wood, or mountain, the different 
roads, leading to various quarters of the kingdom. 

“Horrible condition of kings!” murmured Don 
Pedro. “ I love that woman, and yet neither to 
herself, nor to others, dare I show that I love her; 
for were she to perceive that love, she would abuse 
it; for it is unfit that an} should believe they 
possess enough empire over the king, to snatch 
from him either reparation for an injury or any 
advantage. Above all, it 10 unfit that any one 
should say: ‘The queen has outraged the king; 
the king knows it and he is not avenged!’ Oh!” 
continued Don Pedro, after an instant’s silence, 
during which his countenance indicated all that 
was passing in his heart, “ it is not the desire to 
avenge myself which is wanting, but were I to act 
too violently, my kingdom, perhaps, would be lost 
by this act of imprudent justice. As to Don Fre- 
derick, he depends on me only, and the King of 
France can have nought to say, either to his life, 
or his death. Only, will he come? or if he come, 
will he not have time to warn his accomplice?” 

As he spoke, these words, the king perceived on 
the road of the Sierra d’Araisena, what seemed a 
cloud of dust. This cloud increased. Soon, through 
this veil, now become more transparent, be perceived 
the white robes of the Moorish horsemen; then 
by the height of his stature, by the gilded palanquin 
near which he rode, the king recognised Mothrib 

The troop advanced rapidly. 

“ Alone!” murmured the king. 

When he was able to comprehend with one 
glance the first and the last of the men composing 
the troop, “Alone! what then has become of the 
grand master? Has he, perchance, refused to come 
to Seville? and must one go to seek him as far as 
Coimbra?” However, the troop continued to 
advance. 

At the end of an instant, it disappeared under 
the gates of the town. The king followed it with 
his eyes, and from time to time saw it re-appear 
and glisten amid the tortuous streets of the city; 
at last he saw it enter the Alcazar; by leaning on 
the balustrade, he could follow it through the 
courts ; it was obvious that in ail instant he Would 
be assured. 

The Moor had free and absolute right of entry 
to the king. After an instant’s lapse, he appeared, 
therefore, on the terrace, and found Don Pedro 
erect, his eyes fastened on the spot, by which he 
knew he was to arrive. His countenance was 
gloomy, and he spught not to dissemble his anxiety. 

The Moor crossed his hands on his breast, and 
almost brought his forehead to the ground. But 
Don Pedro only replied to this salute by an im- 
patient gesture. 

“ The grand master,” he said. 

“ Sire,” replied Mothril, “ it was my duty to 
return with all speed to you. The great interests 
concerning which I have to speak will procure, no 
doubt, your highness’s attention to the voice of his 
faithful servant.” 

Don Pedro, accustomed as he was to read in the 
depths of the heart, was too much absorbed in the 
passions which disturbed him at the moment, tc 
see how much cunning precaution was involved ii 
the purposely embarrassed words of the Moor. 

“ The grand master!” he repeated, stamping 
with his foot. 


TOR TRON HAND; OR. THF KNIGHT OF MAURFON 


57 



“My lord, he will come,” replied Mothril. 

“ Why have you left him? Why, if he be not 
guilty, does he not come of his own accord? or, 
If he be, why is he not brought by force?” 

“ My lord, the grand master is not innocent, and 
yet be assured he will come; perhaps he would 
endeavour to fly, but he is watched by my fol- 
lowers; they lead him, rather than escort him 
hither. If I have taken a start in advance, ’tis 
that I may speak to the king, not of the things 
that are done, but of those that remain to do.” 

“ Thus, then, he is coming, '-you are sure of that?” 
repeated Don Pedro. 

“ To-morrow evening he will be at the gates of 
Seville; I have made good speed, as you see.” 

“No one is informed of his journey?” 

“None.” 

“ You understand the importance ol my ques- 
tion and the gravity of your answer?” 

“ Y'es, sire.” 


“Well then! what further news have you?” 
asked Don Pedro, with a horrible contraction of 
the heart, of which his face revealed nothing, h r 
he had had time to compose that to an air of in- 
difference. 

“ The king knows how jealous I am of his ho- 
nour,” said the Moor. 

“ Yes, but you know also, Mothril,” said Don 
Pedro, knitting his brow, “ that though insinua- 
tions on that subject may be tolerated by me from 
Maria Padilla, from a jealous woman by perhaps 
too patient a lover, yet that from you to Don 
Pedro, from the minister to the king, all blame oil 
the irreproachable conduct of Queen Blanche is in- 
terdicted; you know it, and if you have forgotten, 
I repeat it.” 

“ Sire Pedro,” said the Moor, “ a king so power- 
ful and happy as you are, at once loving and be- 
loved, can find no room in his heart either for 
envy or jealousy; I can understand that your 


58 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


happiness, my lord, is great, but that happiness 
should not render you blind.” 

“ This time you know something,” said Don 
Pe'dro, fixing his searching glance on the 
Moor. 

“ My lord,” coldly replied this last, “ your lord- 
ship, without doubt, has often reflected on the 
snares with which you are suirounded. Your 
wisdom must have inquired what was to become 
of the monarchy of Castile, when its king possesses 
no heir.” 

“ No heirs,” repeated Don Pedro. 

“ At least no lawful heirs,” resumed the Moor; 
so that in case any misfortune befell you, the 
kingdom would belong to the boldest or most for- 
tunate of the bastards, whether to Henry, to Don 
Frederick, or to Tello. 

“ Why all these words, Mothril?” asked Don 
Pedro. “Would you, perchance, advise me to 
marry a third time? The results of my two first 
marriages have not been so happy as to make me 
follow your advice. I warn you of that Mo- 
thril.” 

These words dragged out from the depths 
*>f the king's soul by strong regret, made the 
Moor’s eyes glitter. 

It was the revelation of all the torments which 
Don Pedro underwent infos agitated mind; Mothril 
knew half of what he wished to know, a word 
would tell him the rest. 

“ My lord,” he said, “ why should not your 
third wife be a woman whose character you had 
softnded, and whose fruitfulness should be certain. 
Marry Donna Maria Padilla, for instance, as you 
love her so much as not to be able to quit her, and 
as her family is sufficiently high to enable her io 
become queen. Thus your sons would become 
legitimate, and none would have the right to dis- 
pute their claim to the throne of Castile. 

Mothril had combined all the strength of his 
understanding that he might measure the bearing 
* of an attack which did not admit of being repeated. 
Then, with a delight unknown to other men, and 
known only by those whose all-embracing ambi- 
tion makes kingdoms the stake of their game, he 
saw a dark cloud of trouble pass over his sove- 
reign’s countenance. 

“ I have already broken without any result, a 
marriage which connected me with the King of 
France,’ 5 said Don 1‘edro; “I cannot now break 
that which connects me with the house of Castro.” 

“ 'Tis well,” muttered Mothril to himself; “no 
more real love in nis heart, no longer any influence 
to be dreaded ; there is a place to be taken, if not 
on the King of Castile's throne, at least in his bed.” 

“ Let us bring this matter to an end,” said Don 
Pedro. “ You had, you said, something important 
to communicate.” 

“ Oh! what I had to say was merely a piece of 
news which releases you from all respect due to 
France.” 

“ This news, then — speak quickly.” 

“ My lord,” said Mothril, “permit me to descend, 
that I may give my orders to the escort of the 
litter which waits below. *1 am anxious on the 
subject, as I have left in it alone, a person whom 
I hold very dear.” 

Don Pedro looked at him with surprise. 

“ Go,” said lie, “ and return quickly.” 

The Moor descended, and made the litter ad- 
vance as far as the first court. 

Don Pedro from the height of the terrace fol- 
lowed the proceedings of his minister. Mothril 
returned a few moments afterwards. 

“ My lord,” he said, “ wiil your highness again 


grant me, as hitherto, an apartment in the 
Alcazar?” 

“ Yes, certainly ” 

“ Allow me then to conduct thither the person 
who is in the litter.” 

“ A woman ?” asked Don Pedro. 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

“ A slave whom you lore?” 

“ Sire, my daughter.” 

“ 1 did not know that you had a daughter, 
Mothril. 5 ’ 

Mothril made no reply. Doubt and curiosity took 
possession at once of the king’s soul. That was 
what the Moor desired. 

“ Now,” said Don Pedro, whom the importance 
of the situation recalled to the matters he wish.d 
to know, “ tell me what you know concerning 
Queen Blanche.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

HOW THE MOOR RELATED WHAT HAD PASSED TO 
THE KING, DON PEDRO. 

•The Moor approached the king, and assuming an 
expression of deep compassion ; that is, of the senti- 
ment which, from an inferior, was most likely tc 
wound, he said. 

“ Sire, before commencing this recital, I need to 
feel assured that your highness remembers, in every 
particular, the orders you have given me.” 

“ Continue,” said Don Pedro, “ I never forget 
aught of what I have once spoken.” 

“ The king had ordered me to repair to Coimbra. 
I repaired thither, to say to the grand master that 
his highness expected him, I said so; to hasten 
his departure, I took but an hour's rest, and the 
very day of our arrival we set out on our journey.” 

“ Good, good,” said Don Pedro, “ I know 
Mothril, “ that you are a faithful servant.” 

“Your highness added: ‘you will be on your 
guard, lest during your journey the grand master 
should give any one notice of his departure.’ Well, 
the very day after our departure, the grand master, 
* * * But truly, notwithstanding your highness’s 
orders, I know not whether I should tell you what 
had passed.’' 

“ Continue.’ 

“ On the day after his departure, the grand 
master wrote a letter ' 

“To whom'" 

“ To the very person whom your highness 
feared lest he should write to.’ 

“ To the Queen Blanche?” cried Pedro, grovi'g 
pale. “ To the Queen Blanche, Sire Moor?' 5 said 
Don Pedro; “think on the gravity of su :h an 
accusation.’ 5 * 

“ I think only hor I may serve my king.” 

“ You may slid that you have been mis- 
taken.’ 5 

Mothril sbfv'r 1 * t 

“ I have not oeen mistake? ,’ he replied. 

“Have a care! That lettei I must have” ex- 
claimed Don Pedro, in a threatening voice. 

“ I have it here!” wildly replied the Moor. 

Don Pedro who had made a step in advance, 
trembled and fell back. 

“ Oh!’ 5 he said, “you have it?” 

“Yes.” . 

“ The letter written by Don Frederick?” 

“ Yes. 5 ’ . 

“ To Blanche of Bourbon?” 

“ Yes.” 

“And this letter?” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIUHT OF MAULEON. 


59 


“ I will give it to your highness, when you are 
less exasperated than you are a*- this moment.” 

“I!” said Don Pedro, with a nervous smile, “ I 
exasperated? I have never oeen calmer.” 

“No, your highness, you are not calm, for your 
eye is indignant, your lips grow pale, your hand 
trembles and dallies with your dagger. Why 
conceal it, my lord? J Tis very natural, and 
revenge in such a case is lawful; wherefore con- 
jecturing that your highness’s vengeance will be 
terrible, I endeavour before hand to soften it.” - 

“ Give me the letter, Mothril!” exclaimed the 
king. 

“But, my lord ” 

“ Give me the letter without delay, on the very 
instant — I will it!” 

The Moor slowly drew from beneath his crim- 
son robe the pouch belt of the unfortunate 
Fernando. 

“ My first duty,” he said, “ is to obey my 
master, whatever may be the consequence.” 

The king examined the pouch belt, drew from 
it the bag embroidered in pearls, opened it and 
eagerly seized the letter which it contained. The 
seal of the letter had obviously b' en raised; Don 
Pedro’s features underwent a new contraction 
when he saw this; but without making any ob- 
servation, he read : — 

“ Madam and queen, the king has commanded 
my presence at Seville. I have promised to ac- 
quaint you with, the leading occurrences in my life; 
this appears to me decisive. 

“ Whatever may happen, illustrious lady, and 
cherished sister, I should little fear the vengeance 
of Donna Padilla, who doubtless has caused me to 
be sent for, did I know that your dear person was 
in safety from her aim. I know not what awaits 
me; perhaps a prison, perhaps death. As a pri- 
soner, I can no longer defend you, and if I must 
die, I avail myself of a moment in which my arm 
is free, to tell you that my arm would be at your 
service, were it not enchained, that my heart is 
yours even unto death. ’ 

“ Fernando bears you this advice, this adieu, 
perhaps, until we meet again, my beloved queen 
and friend, in this world perhaps, certainly in 
Heaven. 

“ Don Frederick.” 

“This Fernando, who is he? where is he?” 
asked Don Pedro, so pale that he was frightful to 
behold. 

“ My lord,” replied Mothril, in a tone of perfect 
ease, “this Fernando was the grand master’s 
page. He left in our company ; on the evening of 
the day following our departure, he received this 
message. The same night, in crossing .he Zezere, 
it so chanced that he was drowned, and that I 
found this writing on his corpse.” 

Don Pedro needed no explanation to under- 
stand Mothril. 

“ Ah,” he said,“ it was you who found the 
corpse?” 

“Yes.” 

“ Before every one else?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thus the contents of this letter are unknown 
to all?” 

“ My lord ” said Mothril, “ pardon my audacity; 
the interest! of my sovereign prevailed with one 
over the discretion which he enjoined; I opened 
the pouch belt and have read th* letter.” 

“ But vou alone? Then it is as if no one had 
read it.' 

“ Doubtless, my lord, since this letter is in my 
hands.” J * 


' But before it was so?” 

“ Ah ! sire; before, I can answer for nothing, the 
less so since the page was not alone in the vicinity 
of his master* there was there one of the accursed, 
a giaour, a dog, a Christian — pardon, sire.” 

“And who was this Christian?” 

“A knight of France whom the grand master 
called his brother.” 

“ Ah!” said Don Pedro, with a smile, “ I should 
have thought he would have givei\ some other 
name to his friend.” 

“ Well! he has no secrets from that Christian, 
and it would not be surprising if he were a sharer 
in the confidence reposed in the page, and in that 
case, the crime would be public.” 

“ The grand master is coming?” asked Don 
Pedro. 

“ He follows me, sire.” 

Don Pedro walked up and down some time, 
with his brows knit, his arms crossed, and his 
head leaning on his breast; it was easy to see 
that a terrible storm was raging within his heart. 

“ It is by him, then, that we must begin,” said 
he at last, in a gloomy voice, “ it is, moreover, the 
only excuse of which I can avail myself with 
respect to France. When the king, Charles V., 
sees that I have not spared my brother, he will no 
longer doubt the crime, and will forgive me for 
not sparing his sister-in-law.” 

“But do you not fear me?” said Mothril, “that 
your vengeance may be misunderstood, and that it 
may be supposed that you have struck in the 
grand master, not the lover of Queen Blanche, but 
the brother of Henry de Transtamara, year com- 
petitor to the throne.” 

“ I will publish the letter,” said the king, “ bit od 
shall efface the stain; go, you have served me 
faithfully.” 

“ What are now the king’s orders?” 

“ That the grand master’s apartment be pro 
pared.” 

Mothril went out; Don Pedro remained alone, 
and his thoughts became still darker; he saw 
derision sporting with his name, the proud and 
jealous man displaced the impassible monarch; he 
could fancy he already heard the rumour of the 
loves of Blanche and the grand master flying 
amidst the people with all those exaggerations 
which it adds to royal faults. Then, as he fixed 
his eyes on the apartments of Donna Padilla, he 
thought he could see her standing behind the 
curtains of her window, and could observe ou 
her countenance the smile of satisfied pride. 

“’Tis not she who makes me do what I am 
about to accomplish,” he said, “ and yet people 
will say that she was the cause and she will 
believe it.” 

He turned away his head with impatience, and 
his eyes wandered vaguely around him. 

At that moment, on a terrace below that of the 
royal apartment, passed two Moorish slaves, bear- 
ing censers, whence exhaled a bluish and perfumed 
vapour. The mountain breeze wafted this deli- 
cious perfume to where the king stood. 

Following the slaves, came a woman wearing a 
veil, of a figure lofty yet supple, of slender waist, 
her head inclined downwards. She was enveloped 
in one of those black veils which only leaves an 
opening for the flash of the eye. Mothril was fol- 
lowing her with a respectful demeanour, and 
when they were at the door of the room, where 
the strange female was to enter, the Moor al- 
most prostrated himself at the young girl’s feet. 

Those perfumes, that voluptuous look, that 
respect of the Moor were in such strong con- 


60 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


trast with the passions which choked Don Pedro’s 
heart, that he felt for a moment refreshed and 
regenerated, as if youth and pleasure had been 
called into life by that apparition. 

He therefore waited for the evening with im- 
patience. 

And when the evening was come, he descended 
from his apartment, and through gardens the 
right of entry to which was reserved to himself, 
made his way, trusting to the night, to a spot 
facing the kiosque, occupied by Mothril; then 
carefully raising up the thick festoons and the 
branches of an immense rose laurel, which con- 
cealed, more effectually than curtains, the in- 
terior of the apartment from indiscreet glances, 
he was enabled to descry, on a large silken 
cushion broidered with silver, Aissa, scarcely 
veiled by a long transparent robe, her feet naked 
and adorned with anklets and rings in the Oriental 
fashion, her forehead serene, her eyes lost in a 
vague reverie, her lips smiling, and under their 
parted Vermillion, displaying teeth fine, white, and 
equal, as pearls. 

Mothril had reckoned on the king’s curiosity; 
since the night had fallen he had looked and lis- 
tened, he had heard the noise made by raising the 
branches; he could distinguish, in the calmness 
and cool of the night, the respiration of the king, 
but he showed no sign of being aware that his 
sovereign was there. Only as the careless young 
girl let fall from her hand her coral rosary, he 
hastened to pick it up, and restored it, almost 
kneeling before her. 

Aissa smiled. 

“Why so many honours since the last two or 
three days?” she said. “A father only owes ten- 
derness to his child, and ’tis the child who owes 
respect to the father.” 

“What Mothril does, it is right that he should 
do,” answered the Moor. 

“Why then, my father, bestow on me more atten- 
tion than on yourself?” 

“ Because more attention is due to you than to 
me,” he replied; “for the day may perhaps come, 
when all will be revealed to you; and when that 
day arrives, perhaps, Donna Aissa, you will no 
longer deign to call me your father.” 

These mysterious words struck the young girl 
and the king simultaneously with an impression 
impossible to define; but, however pressing Aissa 
was in her inquiries, Mothril would say nothing 
further, and withdrew. 

As he went out A’issa’s women entered; they 
came with large fans of ostrich feathers to refresh the 
air round their mistress’s sofa, while a sweet music 
which was heard without instrument or performer 
being visible, vibrated through the air like a melo- 
dious perfume. Aissa shut her large eyes which 
had lighted up with secret flames. 

“ What does she dream of?” said the king, seeing, 
as it were, the shadow of a dream float over herfface. 

She was dreaming of the handsome Flinch 
knight. 

The women drew near to lower the blinds. 

“ ’Tis strange,” said the king, forced to leave his 
dangerous contemplation, “ I could say that she 
pronounced a name.” 

The king was not mistaken; she had pronounced 
the name of Agenor. 

But although the blinds had been closed, Don 
Pedro was not in a state of mind which allowed 
of his returning to his apartments. 

The heart of that prince was at that moment 
full of the most contradictory feelings. 

These feelings produced a conflict which 


banished all hope of repose and sleep; seeking, 
therefore, freshness from the air of the night and 
calmness from its silence, the king remained wan- 
dering in the gardens, always returning, as if by 
irresistible attraction, to the kiosque where the 
beautiful Moresca was wrapt in the most pn/imnd 
slumber; sometimes also he passed bef#re the 
windows of Donna Padilla, and fixed his eye on 
their darkened glasses; then believing that the 
haughty Spaniard was asleep, he resumed his 
walk, which always by a greater or lesser circuit 
brought him back to the kiosque. 

The king was mistaken; Maria Padilla was not 
asleep; the lights were extinguished; but as full 
of fire as that of Don Pedro, her heart burnt, and 
bounded in her bosom, for standing motionless 
behind her window, wrapped in a dark coloured 
dress, she looked at the king without losing one 
of his motions, and, we may almost say, without 
letting one of his thoughts escape her. 

There were besides Maria Padilla s eyes, two 
others, which also read in Don Pedro’s heart ; 
these were the eyes of i*e Moor, who had posted 
himself as a sentinel to estimate the results of his 
intrigue. When the king approached AYssa’s 
windows he trembled with joy. When Don Pedro 
raised his eyes to the apartment of Maria Padilla, 
and appeared to hesitate whether he would not 
repair to his mistress, the Moor’s mouth muttered, 
in an under tone, threats wdiich his hand, instinc- 
tively clutching his poinard, seemed ready to exe- 
cute. It was under the influence of these piercing 
and venomous looks from two different quarters 
that Don Pedro, while he thought himself solitary 
and forgotten, passed all the night; at last, 
thoroughly wearied out. about an hour before 
daylight he stretched himself on a bench and slept 
with that feverish and agitated sleep which is only 
an addition to other sufferings. 

“ You are not yet, as I would wish you,” said 
Mothril, as he saw the king yield to the oppres- 
sion of weariness; “ I must manage to rid you of 
that Donna Padilla whom you love no longer, 
as you say, and yet whom you cannot resolve to quit. ” 

And he allowed the curtain, which he had raised 
to look into the garden, to fall. 

“ It must be so,” said Maria Padilla to herself, 
“ there is one last effort to be made, one prompt 
and decisive effort, before this woman, for doubt- 
less it was a woman that he w r as looking at through 
the blinds, has had time to gain influence over his 
heart.” 

And she gave directions to her servants, who, 
when morning began, made a great racket in the 
palace. 

When the king awoke and went up to his apart- 
ment, he heard in the courts the trampling of 
mules and horses, and in the passages the hurried 
steps of women and pages. 

He ivas about to inquire the cause of all this 
movement, when his door opened, and Maria Pa- 
dilla appeared on the threshold. 

“ For whom, madam, are these horses in readi- 
ness, and to what purpose are these servants so 
busy?” asked Don Pedro. 

“They wait my departure, sire; a. departure 
which I have hastened as much as possible, to 
spare your highness the presence of a woman who 
can no longer do anything for your happiness. 
Besides, my enemy arrives to-day, and, as doubt- 
less in the outburst of fraternal love, your mten- 
tipn will be to sacrifice me to him, I yieid the place 
to him, for I owe myself to my children, w ho since 
their father forgets them, stand doubly in naed of 
their mother.” 









THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MATJLEON. 


61 


Maria Padilla passed for being the most beauti- 
ful woman in Spain; such was her influence over 
Don Pedro, that contemporary chroniclers, con- 
vinced that beauty, however perfect, could not 
reach such power, attributed that influence to 
magic, instead of seeking its causes in the natural 
charms of the magician. 

Such as she was, in the beauty of her twenty- 
fifth year, in the wealth of her title of mother, 
with her long black hair fallin . down on the plain 
woollen dress which, as was the fashion in the 
fourteenth century, clung closely to her arms, her 
shoulders, and her bosom, she was, to Don Pedro, 
the sum not of all that he had dreamed, but of all 
that he had really felt of love and gentle thoughts ; 
she was the fairy of the house, the flower of the 
^oul, the jewel-casket of happy memories. The 
king looked on her with melancholy. 

“ It has surprised me, Maria,” he said, “ that 
you have not already left me; it is true that you 
have well chosen your time — that when my brother 
Henry is in revolt, when my brother Frederick 
betrays me, when the King of France is doubt- 
less about to make war against me. It is true 
that women love not misfortune.” 

“ Are you unhappy?” exclaimed Donna Padilla, 
making two steps in advance and extending her 
hands to Don Pedro, 44 in that case I remain, that 
is enough for me; hitherto I should have asked, 
‘Pedro, if I remain, will you be happy?' ” 

On his part, the king was leaning forward, so 
that one of Maria’s beautiful hands fell within his 
own. He was in one of those moods when the 
heart, profoundly wounded, feels the need of heal- 
ing itself by a little love. 

He carried the hand to his lips. 

44 You are wrong, Maria,” he said, 44 1 love you, 
but if you wished to find a love that should match 
with your own, you should haye sought it else- 
where than in a king.” 

44 You do not then wish me to leave?” said Maria 
Padilla, with that adorable smile which made Don 
Pedro iorget the rest of the universe. 

44 No,’ said the king, 44 if only you consent to 
share my future fortunes, as you have shared those 
which are past.” 

Then, from the very spot where she stood, 
through the open window 7 , and with one of those 
queenly gestures w 7 hich would have made one sup- 
pose that Maria was born on a throne, the beauti- 
ful figure made a sign to all her train, ready to 
depart, to return to their apartments. 

At that r'oment entered Mothril. This too 
prolonged c nference of Don Pedro with his mis- 
tress bad made him anxious. 

“What now?’ asked Don Pedro with impa- 
tience. 

44 1 hf? ve to inform you, sire,” replied the Moor, 
44 that your brother Don Frederick is now arriving, 
and that his escort is visible on the road of Por- 
tugal.” 

At this news, such an expression of hatred 
darted in flashes from the king’s eyes, that Maria 
Padilla readily saw that she had nothing to fear 
from that quarter, and after having leaned her 
forehead towirds Don Pedro, who touched it with 
his pale lips, she returned with a smile to her 
apartments. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

HOW THE GRAND MASTER ENTERED THE ALCAZAX 

OF SEVILLE, WHERE THE KING, DON PEDRO, 

WAS WAITING FOR HIM. 

In fact, as Mothril had said, the grand master was 
approaching Seville; he reached the gates about 
noon, in the greatest heat of the day. 

The horsemen, Moors, and Christians who formed 
his escort, were covered with dust, and the flanks 
of their mules and horses were bathed in sweat. 
The grand master cast a glance on the town walls, 
which he believed he should see covered with 
soldiers and people as on feast days, but he saw 
only the sentinels on their usual rounds. 

44 Must one acquaint the king?” asked one of 
Don Frederick’s officers, preparing to take the lead 
if the prince ordered him. 

44 Do not trouble yourself,” said Don Frederick 
with a melancholy smile, 44 the Moor has gone on 
before us, and the king is already apprised of my 
arrival. Besides,” he added with a tone of bitter- 
ness, 44 are you not aware that tourneys and enter- 
tainments have been awaiting my arrival at 
Seville?” 

The Spaniards looked around them with sur- 
prise, for nothing indicated the tournaments which 
had been promised, or the entertainments which 
had been commanded. On the contrary, all was 
sad and gloomy ; they questioned the Moors, but the 
Moors made no reply. 

They entered the town; doors and windows 
were shut as is usual in Spain, during the great 
heat of the day; neither people nor preparations 
were visible in the streets, and ho other noise was 
heard than that of the doors opened to give pas- 
sage to some one late in taking his nap, and 
anxious to know before making his siesta what 
troops of horsemen it was that entered the town at 
an hour, when in Spain, even the Moors them- 
selves, those children of the sun, seek the shade of 
the woods, or the coolness of the river. 

The Christian cavaliers rode first; the Moors, 
more than double their number, for many other 
troops had successively joined the first, formed 
the rear guard. Don Frederick observed all these 
manoeuvres; the aspect of the town, which he had 
expected to see full of life and joy, and which, on 
the contrary, he found sad and silent as a tomb, 
had already awoke terrible suspicions in his breast. 
An officer approached him, and speaking in his 
ear: — 

44 My lord,” said he, 44 have you remarked that 
the gate by which we entered has been shut be- 
hind us?” 

The grand master made no reply; all continued 
their way, and soon the Alcazar appeared in view. 

Mothril was waiting at the door with some of 
Don Pedro’s officers. Their countenances wore a 
smile of welcome. 

The troop, so impatiently expected, immediately 
entered the courts of the Alcazar, of which the 
gates, like those of the town, were forthwith shut 
upon them. 

Mothril had followed the prince with a de- 
meanour of the most profound respect. 

At the moment of his alighting, the Moor ap- 
proached and said: 

44 You know, my lord, that it is not customary 
to enter a palace with arms. Will you permit me 
to bear your sword to your apartment?’ 

Don Frederick’s anger, long suppressed, seemed 
to wait but this opportunity to burst forth. 

“ Slave,” he said, 44 are you so brutified by ser- 
vility, that you do not know how to recognise 


62 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


vour princes, or obey your masters? Since when 
is it that the grand master of St. James of Cala- 
trava, who has the right to enter helmeted and 
spurred into the church, and to pray to God in 
complete armour, is prohibited from entering the 
palace with a weapon, and speaking with a sheathed 
sword to his brother?” 

Mothril respectfully listened, and humbly bowed 
his head. 

“Your lordship has spoken the truth,” he re- 
plied; “and your very humble servant had for- 
gotten, not that you were a prince, but that you 
•were a grand master of the order of Calatrava. 
All these privileges are Christian customs, and it 
is riot astonishing that a poor misbeliever like 
myself, should be ignorant of, or forget them.” 

At that moment another officer approached 
Don Frederick. 

“ Is it true,” he said, “ my lord, that you have 
ordered us to leave you ?” 

“ Who has said that?” asked the grand master. 

“ One of the guards at the gate.” 

“ And you answered him?” 

“ That we had no orders to receive but from our 
lord, Don Frederick.” 

The prince hesitated an instant; he felt his own 
youth and vigour, he knew his own bravery, and 
he was well enough supported to make a long 
defence. 

“ My lord,” continued the officer, seeing that 
his master' deliberated, “say a -word, give a sign, 
and we will deliver you from this snare into which 
you have fallen; there are here thirty of us, bearing 
lance, sword, and dagger.” 

Don Frederick looked at Mothril, he caught a 
smile on his lips, and followed the direction of his 
look. On the terraces surrounding the courts 
were to be seen archers and crossbowmen, their 
bows and crossbows in hand. 

“ I should but cause these brave fellows to be 
massacred,” said Don Frederick to himself; “no, 
since I alone am the object of enmity, alone will I 
enter.” 

The grand master turned to his companions 
with an air of calmness and confkfonce. 

“Retire, my friends,” he said, “I am in the 
palace of my brother and my king; treachery in- 
habits not such abodes, and if I am deceived, 
remember that I was forewarned of betrayal, and 
that I refused to believe it.’ 

The soldiers of Don Frederick saluted, and went 
out one by one. Don Frederick then found himself 
alone, amid the Moors and the king, Don Pedro’s, 
guards. 

“ Arid now,” he said, turning tow ards Mothril, 
“I wish to see my brother.” 

“ My lord, your desire will be fulfilled,” replied 
the Moor, “ for the king impatiently expects you.” 

He drew aside that the prince might mount the 
staircase of the Alcazar. 

“Where is my brother?” asked the grand 
master. 

“ In the apartment of the terrace.” 

It was an apartment, adjoining that usually in- 
habited by Don Frederick. 

As he passed before the door of his own, the 
grand master stopped for an instant. 

“Can I not,” he said, “enter my rooms and 
rest fol* an instant before appearing in my brother’s 
presence?” 

“ My lord,” replied Mothril, “ when your high- 
ness has seen the king, you will then be able to 
rest at your ease, and as long as you think fit.” 

A movement w r as perceptible among 4he Moors 
w ho followed the prince. Frederick turned round, j 


“ The dog,” murmured the Moors. 

In fact, the faithful Alan, instead of following 
the horse to the stable, had followed his master, 
as if he guessed the danger which threatened 
him. 

“ The dog is mine,” said Don Frederick. 

The Moors drew aside, less from respect than 
from fear, and the dog came gladly to lean its 
paws against its master’s breast. 

“Yes,” he said, “ I understand you, and you are 
right. Fernando is dead, Agenor is far from here, 
and you are the sole friend I have remaining.” 

“ My lord,” said Mothril, with his ironical smile, 
“is it also one of the privileges of the grand 
master of St. James, to enter the kings apart- 
ments followed by his dog?” 

A dark cloud passed over Don Frederick's fore- 
head. The Moor w r as near him. Don Frederick 
had his hand on his dagger; one prompt decision, 
one rapid movement, and he would be avenged on 
the derisive and insolent slave. 

“ No,” he said to himself, “ the king's majesty 
is in all that surrounds him; let us not infringe 
the majesty of the king.” 

He coldly opened the door ofihis apartment and 
signed to his dog to enter there. 

The dog obeyed. 

“ Wait for me, Alan,” he said. 

The dog lay down on a lion’s skin. The grand 
master shut the door. At that moment a voice 
was heard to cry: — 

“ My brother, where then is my brother?” 

Don Frederick recognised the king's voice, and 
advanced to that quarter of the apartment whenc* 
the voice was heard. 

Don Pedro, who had just left his bath, still pale 
from the effects of a night passed without sleep, 
and agitated with silent rage, fixed a severe lea k 
on the young man who remained kneeling before 
him. 

“ Behold me, my king and brother,” he said, 
“ you have summoned me, and here I am. I have 
come in ail haste to see you, and to wish you all 
manner of prosperity.” 

“How is that possible, grand master?” replied 
Don Pedro, “ and have I not cause to wonder that 
your words and your actions are so little in agree- 
ment. You wish me all manner of prosperity you 
say, and yet you conspire against me, with my 
enemies.” 

“ Sire, I do not understand you,” said Don Fre- 
derick, rising up, for from the moment that he 
was accused, he w'ould no longer remain kneeling. 
“Is it indeed to me that these words are ad- 
dressed?” 

“ Yes, to yourself, Don Frederick, grand master 
of St. James.” 

“ Then, sire, you term me traitor.” 

“Yes! for a traitor you are,” replied Don 
Pedro. 

The young man grew pale, but remained self- 
possessed. 

“ Why that term, my king?” he said, with an 
accent of infinite sw r eetness. “ I have never 
offended you, at least not voluntarily so. On the 
contrary, in many encounters, and especially in 
the war against the Moors, who are now your 
friends, I have wielded a sword of great weight 
for my then youthful arm.” 

“ Yes,” exclaimed Don Pedro, “ the Moors are 
my friends! and it has been very needful tome, 
that I should choose my friends among the Moors, 
when in my own family I have only found 
enemies.” 

Don Frederick rose up more proud and mere 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


63 


intrepid, in proportion as the king’s reproaches 
became more unjust and more outrageous. 

“ If you speak of my brother Henry,” he said, 
“ I have no answer to make, and that concerns 
not me. My brother Henry has rebelled a g inst 
you; my brother Henry is wrong, for you are our 
lawful lord both by age and birth ; but my brother 
Henry wishes to be King of Castile, and it is said 
that ambition loses sight of every restraint. I am 
not ambitious, and have no pretensions. I am 
grand master of St. James; if you know any 
more worthy of the office than myself, I am ready 
tc resign it into his hands.” 

Don Pedro made no reply. 

“ I have conquered Coimbra from the Moors, 
and have kept in it, as in my own property. No 
one possesses rights over my town. Do you wish 
for Coimbra, my brother? It is a good port.” 

Don Pedro made no reply. 

“ I command a small army,” resumed Don Fre- 
derick, “but I raised it subject to your good 
pleasure. Do you wish for my soldiers, to fight 
against your enemies?” 

Don Pedro remained silent. 

“ I have no other possessions than those of my 
mother, Donna Eleanora de Guzman, and the 
treasures which I have conquered from the Moors. 
Do you wish for my money, brother?” 

“’Tis neither your office, your town, your 
soldiers, nor your treasures that I want,” said Don 
Pedro, unable any longer to contain himself at the 
sight of the young man’s calmness, “’tis your 
head’’ 

“ My li p e is yours as much as the rest, my king; 
I will defend it no more than I would have defended 
the rest. Only, why take my head, when my 
heart is innocent?” 

“ Innocent, ’ replied Don Pedro. “ Do you know 
a Frenchwoman called Blanche of Bourbon ?” 

“ I know a Frenchwoman called Blanche of 
Bourbon, and respect her as my queen and my 
sister.” 

“Well! that is what I have to say,” resumed 
Don Pedro; “’tis that you hold as a queen and as 
our sister, the enemy of your brother and your 
ing.” 

“Sire,” said the grand master, “if you call 
enemy any one whom you have injured, and who 
preserves at heart the memory of that injury, the 
person of whom you speak is perhaps your enemy. 
But on my soul, it would be as meet to call your 
enemy the antelope whom you have struck with 
an arrow, and who flies away bleeding.” 

“ I call whoever raises my towns to revolt my 
enemy, and that woman raised Toledo. I call 
enemy whoever arms my brothers against me, and 
that woman has armed against me my brother, not 
my brother Henry, the man of ambition as you 
just now termed him, but my brother Don Fre- 
derick, the hypocritical and the incestuous.” 

“ My brother, I swear — ” 

“ Swear not, you would perjure yourself.” 

“ My brother ” 

“Do you know that?” said Don Pedro, drawing 
the grand master’s letter from Fernando’s pouch 
belt. 

At that sight, which proved to him that Fer- 
nando had been assassinated, at that proof of his 
affection fallen into the hands of the king, Don 
Frederick felt that his strength was failing him* 
He bent his knee before Don Pedro, and remained 
an instant with his head bowed under the weight 
of impending misfortune. A murmur of astonish*- 
ment ran through the group of courtiers, stationed 
a: the extremity of the gallery. Frederick, on his 


knees before his brother, was evidently suppli- 
cating the king; but if he bepged for mercv, he 
must be guilty; they wou d not think that he was 
begging for another. 

“ Sire,” said Don Frederick, “ I take God to 
witness that I am innoc jnt of that with which you 
reproach me.” 

“ It is then to God that you will go and say it,” 
resumed the king; “for my part, I do- not be- 
lieve it.” 

“ My death, might wash aw ay a stain,” said the 
grand master; “ but what will it be when I am free 
from crime.” 

“Free from crime!” cried the king, Don Pedro; 
“What call you that?” 

And carried away by anger, the king skpjx-d 
his brother’s face with the letter he had written to 
Blanche o Bourbon. 

“ ’Tis well,” said Frederick, making a step 
backwards; “ kill 1 * me, but do not outrage me! I 
know for long that men may become cow-ards by 
dint of living amid courtiers and slaves! King, 
you are a coward, for you have insulted a 
prisoner!” 

“My guards!” exclaimed Don Pedro; “this 
way; take him aw T ay and kill him.” 

“ A moment’s pause,” said Don Frederick, ex- 
tending with dignity his hand toward his brother, 
“furious as you are, you will hesitate at what E 
am about to say. You have suspected an innocent 
woman, and by suspecting her, have outraged the 
King of France; but you must not offend God at 
pleasure. Now I wish to pray to God before you 
assassinate me; I wish an hour to address my 
Supreme Master. I am no Moor.’’ 

Don Pedro was almost mad with rage. But he 
restrained himself, for others observed him. 

“’Tis well, you shall have an hour,” he said; 
“go.” 

All who were witnesses of this scene, were cold 
with fear. The eyes of the king flamed, but from 
Don Frederick’s also, lightning darted. 

“Be ready in an hour!” cried Don Pedro to 
him, at the moment he left the room. 

“ Be re-assured, I shall always die too soon for 
you, for I shall die innocent.’ 

He remained an hour alone by. himself without 
any one approaching him, in communion w ith hi3 
Maker; then as that hour had expired, anct as the 
executioners had not appeared he went int. he 
gallery and cried: — 

“ You make me w r ait. My Lord Don Pedro, the 
hour is passed.” 

The executioners entered. 

“ By what death must I die?” asked the prince. 

One of the executioners drew his sw r ord. 

Frederick examined this sword by passing his 
finger over its edge. 

“ Take mine,” said he, drawing his sword from 
the sheath, “ it cuts better.” 

The soldier took the sword. 

“When you are ready, grand master,” said he. 

Frederick made a sign to the soldier to wait an 
instant; then drawing near a table, he wrote some 
lines on a parchment, rolled it up, and placed it 
between his teeth. 

“What is that parchment,” asked the soldier. 

“It is a tali, man which renders me invul- 
nerable,” said Don Frederick ; “ strike now, I 
brave you.” 

And the young prince, baring his neck, and rais- 
ing his long hair to the top of his head, kneeled 
down with his hands clasped and a smile on his 
lips. 

“ Do you believe in the pow r er of this talisman?” 


64 


THE IKON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


asked a soldier, in a whisper, from the one about 
to strike. 

W e shall soon see,” answered he. 

“ Strike!” said Frederick. 

The sword flashed in the executioner’s hands; 
lightning Parted from the blade, and the grand 
master’s head, struck off at a blow, rolled on the 
floor/ 

At thatmoment, a frightful howling reverberated 
to the palace roofs. The king, who was listening 
at his door, fled with horror. The executioners 
rushed out of the room. Nothing remained on 
the spot but blood, a head lopped from the body, 
and a dog which, bursting through a door, came 
to lie down by these sad human wrecks. 


CHAPTER IX. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON RECEIVED THE 

LETTER WHICH HE HAD COME IN QUEST OF. 

The first shades of night descended grey and 
lugubrious on the desolate palace. Don Pedro 
was seated, gloomy and anxious, in the lower apart- 
ments, where he had taken refuge, not daring 
to remain in the apartment adjoining that where 
lay the corpse of his brother. Near him was 
Maria Padilla weeping. 

“ Why do you weep, madam?” said the king 
suddenly, and with bitterness. “ Have you not now 
what you have so much wished for. You asked me 
for the life of your enemy ; you should be satisfied, 
your enemy is no more.” 

“ Sir,” said Maria, “ perhaps in a moment of 
feminine pride, of insane anger, I desired that 
death. May God pardon me if that desire ever 
dwelt in my heart! but I may say that I never 
asked it.” 

“Ah! such are women!” exclaimed Don Pedro; 
“ ardent in their desires, timid in their resolutions; 
they are always wishing, but they never dare to 
perform; then if one is mad enough to execute 
their wishes, they deny ever having formed them.” 

“Sire, in Heaven’s name,” said Maria, “never 
say that it is to me that you sacrificed the grand 
master; it would be my torment and remorse both 
in this life and that which is to come. But say 
what is the truth; say that you sacrificed him to 
your honour. I will not, do you understand. I 
will not that you leave me without acknowledging 
that.it was not I who urged you to this murder.” 

“I will say anything you wish, Maria,” coldly 
replied the king, as he rose and went to meet Mo- 
thrii, who had just entered with the rights of a 
minister and the assurance of a favourite. 

At first, Maria turned away her eyes to avoid 
seeing that man, towards whom the death of the 
grand master, though it had served her interests, 
had redoubled her hatred; she withdrew to the 
embrasure of a window, and there, while the king 
conversed with the Moor, she looked at a knight 
in complete armour, who availing himself of the 
disorder which the execution of Don Frederick had 
spread throughout the palace, was entering the 
court without guards or sentinels asking whither 
he was going. 

This knight was Agenor, who was obeying the 
appeal made to him by the grand master, and 
who, seeking out the purple curtains which this 
latter had designated as those o! this apartment, 
disappeared at the turning of the wall. 

Maria Padilla followed the knight mechani- 
cally with her eyes, without knowing who he 


was, until he had disappeared. Then returning 
from the exterior to the interior, she again directed 
her glances on the king and on Mothril. 

. The king was speaking with animation. By 
the energy of his gestures it might be perceived 
that he was giving terrible orders. A spark struck 
on the mind of Donna Maria; with that rapid 
intuition which is so frequent with women, she 
guessed what was the matter in hand. 

She sprang towards Don Pedro at the moment 
when he was making a sign to Mothril to with- 
draw. 

“ Sire,” said she, “ you will not give two such 
orders in one day?” 

“You have heard me, then,” cried the king, 
growing pale. 

“No; but I have guessed. Oh! sire, sire,” con- 
tinued Maria, falling on her knees before the 
king, “ I have often complained of her, often 
excited you against her, but do not kiL her, sire, 
do not kill her; for after you had killea her, you 
would say to me, as you have just said in regard 
to Don Frederick, that it was in answer to my 
entreaties that youliad put her to death.” 

“ Maria,” said the king, with a gloomy look, 
“ arise, beseech me no longer, it is useless; all was 
decided before hand. The matter ought not to 
have begun if it is not now to be concluded; the 
death of one draws after it the death of the other. 
If I struck only at Don Frederick, it would be 
thought, not that Don Frederick had expiated a 
crime, but that he had been sacrificed to some 
private resentment.” 

Donna Maria looked fCt the king with horror; 
as some traveller might tremblingly recoil from 
the verge of an abyss. 

“Ah! all this will fall on me,” she said; “on 
me and my children; it will he said that it was I 
who drove you to this double murder, and yet you 
see it, my God,’,’ she added, dragging herself to 
his feet, “ I pray, I beseech him not to haunt me 
with this woman’s spectre.” 

“No; for I shall proclaim all, my shame and 
their crime; no, for I shall show Don Frederick’s 
letter to his sister-in-law.” 

“But,” said Donna Maria, “you will never find 
a Spaniard who. will raise a hand against the 
queen.” 

“ 1 have, therefore, chosen a Moor,” impassibly 
replied Don Pedro. “ What would be the use of 
the Moors if they were not ready to do what a 
Spaniard would refuse?” 

“Oh! I wished to leave this morning,” exclaimed 
Donna Padilla; “ why did I remain? But there 
is still time this evening; allow me to quit this 
palace; my house is open to you at all hours of 
the day and night, you will come and see me at 
my house.” 

“Do what you please, madam,” srdd Don 
Pedro, to whom, by a strange turn of thought, the 
image of the beautiful Moresca of the kiosque, 
with her voluptuous repo.se, and her female atten- 
dants, with their large fans, watching over her, 
had just presented itself. “ Do whatever you 
will. I am tired of always hearing that you are 
going, without ever seeing you go.” 

“ God is my witness, ’’teuid Maria Padilla, “ that 
I depart from here only because not having de- 
manded that Don Frederick should die, I uselessly 
ask that Queen Blanche may live.” 

And before Don Pedro oould oppose the pro- 
ceeding, she rapidly opened the door and prepared, 
to depart; but at that moment a great noise was 
heard in the palace; people were seen to fly in 
, senseless terror; cries were heard of which tho 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


65 



cause could not be divined; the spirit of disorder 
seemed to float o’er the palace with extended 
wings. 

•‘Listen!” said Maria, “listen!” 

“TV hat is going on?” exclaimed Don Pedro, 
approaching his mistress; “and what is themeon- 
mg of all this? Answer, Mothril,” he continued, 
addressing the Moor, who standing on the other 
side of the vestibule, pale and his eyes fixed on an 
object which Don Pedro could not see, remained 
motionless, with one hand on his dagger, and the 
other wipmg away the sweat which ran down his 
forehead. 

“Frightful! frightful!” repeated every voice. 

% L)oT } 1 edro impatiently stepped forward, and 
*nen it was that a horrible sight struck his eyes, 
e n the summit of the staircase with its broad 
nights, appeared Don Frederick’s dog, bristling 
hke a lion, bloody and terrible; he held in his 
jaws his master’s head, drawing it softly along the 
n.arLue by its long hair. AH the servants and 


guards of the palace w ere flying before him, utter- 
ing the cries which Don Pedro had heard. Brave, 
rash, and unfeeling as he was, Don Pedro strove 
to fly, but his feet, like those of the Moor, seemed 
nailed to the floor. The dog continued to descend, 
leaving a broad crimson track behind him. When 
he came between Don Pedro and Mothril, as if he 
recognised in them the assassins of his master, lie 
laid down the head and gave vent to so lamenta- 
ble a howl, that he made the favourite faint and 
the king shudder as if the angel of death had 
touched him with its wings; then he took up again 
his precious burden, and disappeared in the court. 

There was another who had heard the dog’s 
how r ls, and ha4 shuddered at the sound; this was 
the knight in complete armour whom Maria had 
seen entering the Alcazar, and who, at least as 
superstitious as a Moor, made the sign of the cross 
on hearing, praying God to preserve him from all 
evil meetings. 

Then that cloud of frightened servants fly tig. 



66 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


pushing, upsetting each other, struck him with a 
stupor resembling fear. The worthy knight leant 
against a plantain tree, and with his hand on his 
dagger, beheld that rapid procession of pale shades 
defile before him ; at last he beheld the dog, and the 
dog perceived him. 

The dog came straight to him, led by that 
subtle instinct which enabled it to recognise in the 
knight the friend of his late master. 

Agenor was struck with horror. That bloody 
head — that dog resembling a wolf bearing off its 
prey — that crowd of servants flying with pale 
visages and stifled cries — all appeared to him like 
one of those frightful dreams which occur to vile 
persons devoured by fever. 

The dog continued to approach with a sorrowful 
delight, and laid down at Agenor’s feet, the head, 
soiled with dust, he then uttered the most funereal 
and piercing howl that he had yet given vent to. 
Agenor, motionless from fear, for an instant, be- 
lieved that his heart would fail him; at last, guess- 
ing a part of what had passed, he stooped down, 
put aside with his hands the hair, and recognised 
although drowned in the shades of death, the calm 
and mild eyes of his friend. His mouth was as 
serene as when he lived, and it might be said that 
the smile which was customary with him, still ap- 
peared on . his velvet lips. Agenor fell on his 
knees, and big tears silently rolled down his cheeks. 
He wished to take the head, to perform for it the 
last rites, and it was only then he perceived that 
the teeth of the unfortunate grand master held 
fast a little roll of parchment; he unclosed them 
with his dagger, unrolled the parchment, and 
eagerly r.ead what follows: — 

“ My friend, our fatal presentiments did not 
deceive us; my brother puts me to death. 
Forewarn the Queen Blanche; she also is 
threatened You have my secret; preserve me in 
your memory.” 

“Yes, my lord,” said the knight; “yes, I will 
execute devoutly your last will! But how am I 
to escape from here? I no longer know how I 
came in. My head is going; my memory fails 
me, and my hand trembles so, that I shall let fall 
my dagger which I cannot return to its sheath.” 

In fact, the knight rose to his feet, pale, trem- 
bling, almost mad, going straight on, without per- 
ceiving anything, stumbling against the marble 
columns, extending his hands before him like a 
drunken man, fearing to strike his head against 
some object. At last, he found himself in a mag- 
nificent garden, planted with orange and pome- 
granite trees, and with rose laurels: silvery jets of 
water sparkled in vases of porphyry. He ran to 
one of these basins, drank with avidity, refreshed 
his forehead by dipping it in the cold w r ater, and 
sought to discover w’here he was; then a weak 
light w r hich he could perceive athwart the trees, 
drew his attention and guided him. He ran 
towards it: a form in white leaning against the 
trefoil mouldings of a balcony, recognised him, 
uttered a sigh, and murmured his name. Agenor 
raised his head, and saw a woman who extended 
her arms to him. “ A'issa, AYssa!” he exclaimed 
in his turn, and from the garden he went to where 
the Moresca stood; the young girl extended her 
arms to him with a profound expression of love, 
then suddenly drawing back with anxiety: 

“ Oh! Heavens! Frenchman, are you wounded?” 

In fact, Agenor’s hands were bloody, but instead 
of replying, instead of giving too long an explana- 
tion, he placed one hand on her arm, and with 
the other pointed out the dog following him. At 
that terrible apparition, the young girl uttered a 


cry in her turn ; Mothril, who was then returning, 
heard that cry. His voice was heard demanding 
lights, and the footsteps of himself and his servants 
were heard approaching. 

“ Fly,” cried the young girl, “ fly; he would kill 
you, and I should die also, for I love you.” 

“ A’issa,” said the knight, “ I love you likewise; 
be faithful to me, and you shall see me again.” 

Then pressing the young girl to his heart, and 
imprinting a kiss on her lips, he lowered the 
visor of his helmet, drew his long sword, jumped 
through the window, and fled, thrusting aside 
the branches, and trampling on the flowmrs; he 
soon arrived outside the garden, crossed the court, 
rushed out of the gate, and, astonished that no 
attempt had been made to arrest his progress, per- 
ceived from afar off*, Musaron, firm in his saddle, 
and holding in hand the splendid black charger 
given by Don Frederick. 

A harsh gasping sound, accompanied the 
knight’s track; he turned round, and the little 
care which the guards had taken to bar his way 
w r as explained. The dog, which would not aban- 
don the only friend he now had, was following 
him. 

During this time Mothril, struck with affright 
at the cries he had heard, was rushing to seek 
A'issa. He found the young girl pale and standing 
by the window; he wished to question her; but 
to his first questions, she only replied by a gloomy 
silence. At last the Moor conjectured, what had 
happened. 

“ Some one has entered here? reply A'issa.” 

“ Yes,” said the young girl, “ the head of the 
king’s brother.” 

Mothril looked more attentively at the young 
girl. The print of a bloody hand had remained 
on her dress. 

“ The Frenchman has seen you,” exclaimed the 
exasperated Mothril. 

But this time Ai'ssa looked at him with a proud 
glance, and made no answer. 


CHAPTER X 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON ENTERED THE 
CASTLE OF MEDINA SIDONIA. 

On the morrow of this terrible day, and as the 
first rays of the sun were lighting the summit of 
the Sierra d’Aracena, Mothril, wrapped in a large 
white mantle, was taking his leave of the king, 
Don Pedro, at the bottom of the steps of the 
Alcazar. 

“ I can answer for my servant,” said the Moor, 
“ he is the fit man, sire, to execute your ven- 
geance— his arm is sure and swift, besides, I shall 
w'atch over him. During this time cause the 
Frenchman, the accomplice of the grand master, 
to be sought after; and if you should fall in 
with him, show' him no mercy.” 

“ ’Tis well,” said Don Pedro, “ depart quickly, 
and return.” 

“ Sire,” replied the Moor, “ to make the better 
speed, I shall conduct my daughter on horseback, 
and not in a litter.” 

“Why not leave her at Seville?” replied the 
king. “ Has she not a household of her own, 
her women, her duennas?” 

“ Sire, I cannot abandon her. Wherever I go, 
she must follow me. She is my treasure, and one 
which I must watch over.” 

^ “Ah, ah! Moor, you bring to my mind the 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


67 


hi story of Count Julian and the beautiful Flo- 
rinda.”* 

“ I should remember it,” replied Mothril, “ since 
it was to her that the Moors owed their entry 
into Spain, and that I owe, consequently, the 
honour of being your highness’s minister.” 

“ But,” replied Don Pedro, “ you never told 
me that you had so beautiful a daughter!” 

“ ’Tis true,” said the Moor, “ my daughter is 
very beautiful.” 

“ So beautiful, that you adore her on both knees. 
Do you not?” 

Mothril pretended to be confused by these 
words. 

“ I,” said he, “ who could have told your high- 
ness?” 

“ No one has told me; I have seen,” replied the 
king; “she is not your daughter.” 

“ Ah ! sire,” said Mothril, “ do not believe 
that she is either my wife or my mistress.” 

“ But what is it, then?” 

“ One day the king will know; but in the mean 
time I have to execute your highness’s orders.” 

And taking his feave of Don Pedro, he de- 
parted. 

In fact, the young girl, enveloped in a large 
white mantle, which allowed only her great black 
eyes and her arched eye-brows to be seen, formed 
a part of the Moor’s suite; but this last lied when 
he said that she was to accompany him during all 
the road. At two leagues from Seville, he turned 
aside from the road, and placed the young girl in 
safety in the palace of a wealthy Moorish woman, 
in whom he confided. 

And then, urging his horse rapidly forward, he 
pursued his journey with an uninterrupted course. 

Soon he crossed the Guadalete, at the very spot 
where the king, Don Roderick, had disappeared 
after the famous battle, which lasted seven days, 
and between Tarifa and Cadiz, he saw the castle 
of Medina Sidonia rising into the air, laden with 
all that gloom which weighs on the abodes of 
prisoners. 

It was there that a fair and pale young woman 
was living for a long time, with one other woman 
as her only companion. Guards were multiplied 
around her as if she had been the most dangerous 
of prisoners, and pitiless eyes followed her inces- 
santly, whether with hanging arms and drooping 
head she slowly paced those gardens, parched up by 
the sun ; or whether reclined behind her window, 
closed by iron bars, she allowed her melancholy 
look to wander through space, while sighing for 
liberty or following the infinite and ceaselessly re- 
curring waves of the measureless ocean. 

This woman w r as Blanche of Bourbon, wife of 
Don Pedro, whom he had disdained from after the 
very first night of her marriage. She was slowly 
consuming . away, amid tears and the regret of 
having sacrificed to a vain phantom of ambition 
the happy future which she had one day dreamt of 
in the blue eyes of Don Frederick. 

When the unhappy woman saw the young 
girls who had been gleaning the grapes of Xeres 
and Marbella pass through the country; when she 
heard their lovers’ songs as they went to meet 
them, then her heart swelled, then tears started 
from her eyes. And she also, reflecting that she 
night have been born far from the throne, and as 
free as one of those young vintagers with their sun- 
burnt complexion, invoked a cherished image, and 
murmured to herself a name w hich she had often 
pronounced before. 

Moreover, ever since Blanche of Bourbon had 

* The La Cava above alluded to P.— 1 Translator. 


been a prisoner there, Medina Sidonia seemed a 
spot under a curse. The guards kept at a distance 
the traveller constantly suspected of being an ac- 
complice, or, at least, a friend. The queen ft ad 
only one moment of liberty, or rather of solitude, 
each day ; it was the hour when making the siesta 
under that burning sun, the sentinels, ashamed 
themselves of so many precautions taken to keep 
guard over a woman, leant on their lances, and 
slept under the shade of some green plantain, or 
some white wall. 

Then the queen descended to a terrace which 
bordered the ditch filled with running water. and 
if afar off she could descry an^ traveller, hoping 
that he might be a friend, who would bear tidings 
of her to King Charles, she would extend to him 
her supplicating hands. 

But no one had ye-t replied to that appeal of the 
prisoner. 

One day, however, she saw approaching on the 
road from Arcos, two horsemen, of whom one, 
notwithstanding the glare of the sun streaming on 
his helmet, appeared at ease in his complete 
armour. He bore his lance so proudly, that from 
the first glance one would pronounce him a valiant 
knight. From the moment she first perceived 
him, Queen Blanche’s looks were riveted upon 
him, and could no* b withdrawn. He was ad- 
vancing at the rapid gallop of a vigorous black 
charger, and although he had clearly come from 
Seville, although he appeared to shape his course 
towards Medina Sidonia, and although the mes- 
sengers come hitherto from Seville, had hitherto 
been heralds of misfortune, Queen Blanche experi- 
enced an emotion of joy, rather than of fear, on 
beholding the knight. 

When he, in his turn, beheld her, he stopped. A 
vague presentiment of good fortune then made the 
prisoner's heart beat; she approached the rampart, 
made the sign of the cross, and, as was her custom, 
joined her hands. 

Whereon, the unknown spurring on his horse, 
made at a gallop, straight on for the tetrrace. 

An apprehensive gesture on the part of the 
queen, indicated the sentinel sleeping, as he leant 
against a sycamore. 

The knight alighted, made a sign to his squire 
to come up to him, and whispered in his ear fur a 
few seconds. The squire conducted the two horses 
behind a rock, which concealed them from sight, 
then returned near his master, and both gained an 
enormous clump of myrtle bushes, and lanceolated 
plants, which was within call of the terrace. 

The worthy knight, who like Charlemagne, had 
never been able to make with a pen any other signs 
than such as resembled a poniard, or a sword, 
ordered his squire, more lettered than himself, to 
write quickly with a pencil, which this lad always 
carried about him, s 1 me words on a large pebble. 

Then he signified to the queen to keep out of 
harm’s way, as he was about to hurl the stone on 
the terrace. 

Then with a vigorous arm, he launched the mis- 
sile; it cut the air, and fell on the pavement a few 
yards from the queen. The noise made by its fall 
caused the slumbering soldier to open his eyes, 
but as he perceived no one near him, save the mo- 
tionless and desolate queen, whom he was accus- 
tomed to see every day at the same spot, he 
shut his dazzled eyes aid soon went to sleep 
again. 

The queen went to pick up the pebble and read 
these words:- - 

“ Are you the unfortunate Queen Blanche, sister 
to my king?” 


68 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


The queen’s reply was sublime in its majestic 
grief. Crossing her arms over her bosom, she 
made an inclination of the head, which caused two 
great tears to fall at her feet. 

The knight bowed respectfully, and speaking to 
his squire, who had already provided himself with 
ano her flint-stone for a second letter. 

‘‘ Write this,” said he. 

“ Madam, can you be on this terrace this even- 
ing at eight o’clock ? I have a letter of Don 
Frederick’s to deliver to you.” 

The squire obeyed. 

The second missive arrived as happily as the 
first. Blanche made a joyful gesture, reflected 
some time and replied, 

“No!” 

A third stone was hurled. 

“ Is there a means to penetrate to you?” he 
asked, forced to supply by gestures the use of his 
voice, which might have awaked the sentinel, or of 
writing which his arm had not the strength to 
fling to the other side of the ditch. 

The queen pointed out a sycamore to the knight, 
by availing himself of which he might climb the 
wall; then she indicated a gate which, from that 
wall, led to the tower which she inhabited. 

The knight bowed, he had understood. 

At that moment the soldier awoke and resumed 
his rounds. 

The knight remained some time hidden; then, 
availing himself of a moment in which the senti- 
nel’s attention was directed to another quarter, he 
glided with his squire behind the rock where the 
horses were waiting for him. 

“ Sir,” said the squire, “ we have undertaken a 
difficult piece of work; why did you not send at 
once the grand master’s letter to the queen? I, 
for my part, would not have failed to effect it.” 

“ Because a mischance might have detached it 
in its flight, and the queen would not have believed 
me had the billet been lost. We must wait then 
till the evening, and seek a means to arrive on the 
terrace, without being seen by the sentinel.’ 

The evening came. Agenor had as yet found 
no means to enter the fortress. It might be half- 
past seven o’clock. 

Agenor was disposed to seek entry without 
violence, if possible, and rather by stratagem than 
force. But, as was usual, Musaron’s opinion was 
diametrically opposite to that of his master. 

“ Whatever way you set about it, sir,” he snid, 
“ we should always be forced to give battle and 
to kill. Your scruples then appear to me ill 
placed. To kill is always to kill. Murder is a 
sin at eight in the evening as well as at half-past 
seven. And for many reasons I maintain that the 
only suitable means are those I propose to 
employ.” 

As the kmght felt great confidence in the judg- 
ment of his squire, he yielded to his advice. Then 
Musaron, with the same tranquillity as if he were 
contending for a silver goblet at some village fete, 
adjusted his cross-bow, fixed his bolt, and levelled 
at the Moor: almost immediately a whizzing sound 
was heard. Agenor, who kept his eyes fixed on 
the sentinel, saw his turban oscillate, and his arms 
open. The soldier bending inwards, opened his 
mouth as if to cry out, but no sound escaped from 
his throat; stifled by blood, and sustained by the 
wall against which he was leaning, he remained 
almost upright, and totally without motion. 

Agenor turned towards Musaron, who was re- 
a justing the cross-bow, whence the arrow lodged 
in the Moor’s heart had just taken flight. 

“ Now,” said the squire, “ as the infidel no longer 


exists to give the alarm, let us go on. Nothing 
exists to prevent us, the terrace is deserted, and 
the road open.” 

They bounded towards the ditch, which they 
crossed by swimming. The water glided over the 
knight’s armour as over a fish's scales. As to 
Musaron, always full of precautions, and attentive 
to himself, he had stripped off his clothes and 
bound them in a parcel round his head. When 
they arrived at the foot of the sycamore tree he 
dressed himself, and clinging to the branches of 
the sycamore, while his master was shaking out 
the water trickling through all the rivets of his 
cuirass, he was the first to arrive at a level with 
the rampart. 

“Well!” said Mauleon, “what do you see?” 

“Only,” replied the squire, “the gate which is 
unguarded, and which you, sir, will be able to open 
by tw r o blows with your axe.” 

Mauleon had now arrived at the same height as 
his squire, and could consequently judge for him- 
self the accuracy of this assertion. The road was 
free, and the gate indicated, shut every evening, 
was all that intercepted the communication of the 
prisoner w ith the terrace. 

As Musaron had suggested, Agdnor, by intro- 
ducing the point of his axe between the stones, 
first sprung the lock and then the two bolts. 

The gate was opened. Opposite was a winding 
staircase serving as a back way to the queen’3 
apartments, of which the principal entrance was 
in the interior court. On the first stage they 
found a door, on which the knight struck three 
times without being answered. 

Agenor conjectured that the queen might fear 
some surprise. 

“ Fear nothing, madam, ‘tis only ourselves.” 

“ I have heard you very well,” said the queen, 
from the other side of the door, “ but are you 
not about to betray me?” 

“We so little intend to betray you,” said 
Agenor, “ that I open this gate only that you may 
escape. I have killed the sentinel. We 3hall cross 
the ditch; that will be the affair of a moment, and 
in a quarter of an hour you will be free and in the 
open country.” 

“ But have you the key of this door*?” answered 
the queen. “ I am locked in.” 

Agenor replied by employing the same means 
w hich had succeeded w'ith the gate below. In an 
instant the second door w'as burst like the first 

“Thanks, a thousand times,” exclaimed the 
queen, as she beheld her deliverers. “But,” she added 
in a trembling and scarcely intelligible voice, “but 
what of Don Frederick?” 

“Alas! madam,” said Agenor, placing one knee 
on the ground, and presenting the parchment to 
the queen, “ Don Frederick— there is his li tter.” 

The queen read the note by the light of a lamp. 

“ But he is lost!” she cried; “this note is the 
last farewell of a man about to die!” 

Agenor made no reply. 

“In heaven’s name!” exclaimed the queen, “in 
the name of your friendship for the grand master, 
tell me, is he dead or alive?” 

“ In one or the other case, you see, Don 
Frederick enjoins you to fly.” 

“But if he is no more,” again cried t he queen, 
“whv should I fly? if he is dead, why should I 
live?” 

“To obey his last wishes, madanv, and to 
demand vengeance in his name and yours from 
your brother, the King of France.” 

At that moment the interior gate of the apart- 
ment was opened, and Blanche’s nurse, who had 


TFTE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


69 


followed her from France, entered pale and 
affrighted 

“ Oh, madam,” she said, u the castle is full of 
armed men who have arrived from Seville, and 
an enemy of the king is announced, who de- 
mands to speak with you !” 

“ Let us go, madam, said Agenor, “ there is 
no time to lose.” 

“ On the contrary,” said the queen, “ if I were 
not found at this moment, they would pursue and 
unfailingly rejoin us It is better that 1 should 
receive this envoy ; and then afterwards when he 
is quieted by my presence and by our conversa- 
tion, we shall take flight.” 

“ But, madam,” resumed the knight, “ what 
if this envoy were the bearer of some sinister 
command? what if his intentions were bad?” 

“ I shall know through him, if Don Frederick 
be dead or alive,” answered the queen. 

“ Well, madam,” said the knight, “ if that is 
your only motive for receiving this man, then I 
must at once speak the truth. He is, alas! dead!” 

“ If he is dead,” answered Queen Blanche, 
“ what is it to me what this man intends to do 
here? Take heed for your safety. Sire de Mau- 
ieon; that is all I have to say. Tell that man, 
that I shall follow you,” continued Blancne, ad- 
dressing her nurse. 

Then, as the knight still wished to retain her, 
she imposed obedience by a queenly gesture, and 
left the room. 

‘“Sir,” said Musaron, “ if -you take my advice, 
you will leave the queen to settle her affairs as she 
thinks proper, and we will think of getting back 
again. We shall certainly meet a most unhappy 
end here, sir; something tells me that. Let us put 
off the escape of the queen until to-morrow, and 
in the first instance — ” 

“ Silence,” said the knight, “ the queen shall be 
freed to night, or I shall be a corpse.” 

“ Then, sir,” said the prudent Musaron, “ let 
us at least set the doors to rights, that nothing may 
be perceived, if they visit the terrace. The corpse 
©fthe Moor will be discovered, sir.” 

“ Fling it into the water.” 

“ That plan will only serve for an hour; the 
obstinate fellow will return to the surface.” 

“ One hour may, on certain occasions, suffice to 
save one’s life,” answered the knight. “ Go.” 

“ I feel inclined,” said Musaron, “ at once to 
remain with and to leave you; if I dont leave, the 
Moor will be found; if I do leave, I am afraid 
some harm will befall you, during the instant that 
I leave you by yourself.” 

“ And what harm do you fear wdiile I have my 
sword and dagger?” 

“ Ahem!” said Musaron. 

“ Go then — you lose time.” 

Musaron made three steps towards the door, 
but suddenly stopping: 

“ Ah! sir,” said he, “ do you hear that voice?” 

In fact, the sound of some words somewhat 
loudly spoken had reached them, and the knight 
was listening. 

“ One would say that was Mothril’s voice!” said 
the knight; ££ it is, however, impossible.” 

££ Nothing is impossible where Moors, hell, and 
magic are concerned,” replied Musaron, rushing to 
the door with a rapidity which evinced his desire 
to find himself once more in the open air. 

“ If it oe Mothril, that is a reason the more to 
go to the queen,” exclaimed Agenor; “ for if it be 
Mothril, the queen is lost.” 

And he made a movement to execute his 
generous inclination. 


<£ Sir,” said Musaron, holding him back by his 
surcoat, “you know I am no cow r ard; only I am 
prudent, I do not conceal that, I make it my boast. 
Well ! wait yet a few minutes, my good master, and 
afterwards I will follow you to hell if you think 
proper.” 

“Let us wait then,” answered the knight; 
“ perhaps you are in the right.” 

However the voice still continued speaking; 
gradually its tones became more dull; while, on 
the contrary, the queen, who had at first spoken 1 w, 
by degrees resumed an energetic tone. To this 
strange dialogue succeeded a short interval of 
silence and then a horrible cry. 

Agenor could restrain himself no longer, and 
rushed into the passage. 


CHAPTER XL 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAIJLEON WAS CHARGED 

BY BLANCHE OF BOURBON TO DELIVER A RING 

TO THE QUEEN OF FRANCE, HER SISTER. 

This is what had happened, and was happening 
to the queen. 

Scarcely had Blanche of Bourbon traversed the 
passage, and mounted, following her nurse, some 
steps leading to her room, when ihe heavy tread 
of several soldiers resounded on the great stair- 
case of the tower. But the troop stopped on 
the lower flights, two men only ascended, and 
one of those stopped in the passage, while the 
other continutd his way to the queen’s chamber. 

“ There is a knock at the door.” 

“ Who is there?” asked the nurse, trembling all 
over. 

“ A soldier who comes on behalf of the king, 
Don Pedro, to deliver a message to the Lady 
Blanche,” replied a voice. 

“ Open the door,” said the queen. 

The nurse opened and drew r back before a man 
of lofty stature, who, dressed like a soldier in a 
coat of mail which protected his whole body, 
was further wrapped in a large white mantle, of 
which the hood veiled his head and the folds con- 
cealed his hands. 

££ Retire, good nurse,” said he, with that slightly 
guttural accent, which distinguished all Moors 
even those most accustomed to speak Castilian; 
“ retire, I have to discuss with your mistress mat- 
ters of great importance.” 

The first inclination of the nurse was to remain, 
despite the soldier’s injunction; but her mistress, 
whom she questioned by a look, signified to her to 
withdraw and she obeyed. But as she went 
through the passage, she repented her obedience, 
for she saw the second soldier erect against the 
wall, silent and in waiting, doubtless, to execute 
the orders of the one who had entered the queen’s 
room. 

When once the nurse had passed before that 
man, and felt herself separated from her mistress 
by those two strange visitors, as by a barrier im- 
possible to pass, she understood that Blanche was 
lost. 

As to this latte calm and majestic as usual, 
she advanc(id toward the pretended soldier, the 
messenger of the king; he lowered his head as if 
he feared recognition 

“And now we are alone,” she said, “what 
have you to say?” 

“Madam,” replied the unknown, “the kit g 
knows that you have corresponded with his ene- 


70 THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIOfIT OP MAULEONT. 


mies, which, as you are aware, is a crime of high 
treason.’'* 

“ And is it only to-day that the king knows 
that ?” relied the queen, with the same calmness 
and the same majesty. “ It seems, however, to 
me, that I have been for a long time punished for 
this crime, which he assumes he has only now' 
learnt. 5 ’ 

The soldier raised his head and replied: — 

“ Madam, the king speaks not this time of the 
enemies of his throne, but of the enemies of his 
honour. The Queen of Castile ought not to be 
suspected, and yet she has given occasion to 
scan lal.” 

“Perform your mission,” said the queen, “ and 
leave when it is accomplished. 5 ’ 

The soldier remained an instant silent, as if he 
had hesitated to go further. Then he continued: — 

“ Do you know the history of Don Guttiere?” 

“ No,” said the queen. 

“ It is, however, recent, and has made some 
noise.” 

“ They are precisely recent things of which I am 
ignorant,” replied the prisoner, “ and noise, how- 
ever great, can scarcely penetrate the walls of this 
castle.” 

“Well, then, I must tell it you,” replied the 
messenger. 

The queen, forced to listen, remained erect, 
calm, and dignified. 

*• Don Guttiere,” said the messenger, “ had mar- 
ried a young woman, beautiful, and sixteen years 
of age, exactly the age of your highness, when 
wedded to the king, Don Pedro.” 

Tiie queen disregarded this allusion, notwith- 
standing ifs directness. 

“This woman,” continued the soldier, “before 
being the Sennora Guttiere, was called Donna 
Mencia, and under this, her maiden name, she had 
loved a young nobleman, who was no other than 
the king’s brother, the Count Henry of Trans- 
tamara.” 

The queen trembled. 

“ One night, on returning home, Don Guttiere 
found her all trembling and confused ; he questioned 
her; she pretended that she had seen a man hidden, 
in her chamber. Don Guttiere took a light and 
looked; but he found nothing, save a poniard, so 
rich, that he saw very well such a weapon, could 
not belong to any ordinary gentleman. The 
maker’s name was on the hilt; he went to find 
Kim, and asked to whom he had sold that dagger. 

“ ‘ To the infant, Don Henry, brother to Don 
Pedro,’ replied the maker. 

“Don Guttiere knew all that he desired to know. 
He could not revenge himself on the prince, Don 
Henry, for he was an old Castilian, full of respect 
and veneration for his masters, and who would 
not, on whatever provocation, dip his hands in 
royal blood. 

“But Donna Mencia was the daughter of a 
mere gentleman ; he could avenge himself on her, 
and he did avenge himself.”* 

“ Mow so?” asked the queen, carried away by 
the interest inspired by the recital of this adven- 
ture, which had so much analogy to her own 
position. 

“ Oh ! in a very simple manner,” said the mes- 
senger. “ He went to wait at the door of a poor 
surgeon, named Ludovico, and as this last was 

* This compromise between cowardice and thirst for 
Mood, and the concentration of animosity on the defenceless, 
is v<>ry revolting, and seems scarcely likely to inspire any 
orh r feeling than disgust., even in one so ferocious as 
M nhril. Such things are more easily perpetrated than ap- 
proved.—^ T ranslator. 


about to enter his house, he put a dagger to bis 
throat, bandaged his eyes, and brought him to Ills 
house. When he arrived there, he took off the 
bandage. A. woman lay bound on the bed, having 
two lighted tapers at her head, two others at her 
feet; as if she had been already dead. Her left 
arm especially was so fastly tied, that no efforts 
she could have made would have loosed the bonds. 
The surgeon remained thunderstruck, he could 
understand nothing of t his vision. 

“ * Bleed that woman,’ said Don Guttiere, ‘ and 
let her blood run till she dies.’ 

“ The surgeon wished to resist, but he felt the 
dagger of Don Guttiere penetrating his clothes, 
and ready to penetrate his breast, and he obeyed. 
The same night- a man, pallid and covered with 
blood, flung himself at the feet of Don Pedro. 

“ 4 Sire, sire,’ said he, ‘ this night I have been drag- 
ged, with bandaged eyes, and a dagger at my throat, 
to a house, where I have been compelled by violence 
to bleed a woman, and to let the blood flow till 
she died.’ 

“‘And who compelled you?’ said the king. 
‘ What is the murderer’s name ? 5 

“‘I know not,’ replied Ludovico. 4 But, unper- 
ceived, I dipped my hand in the basin, and, as I 
went out, I pretended to stumble, and pressed my 
blood-stained hand against the door. Make search, 
sire, and the door on which you will find the mark 
of a hand imprinted in blood, will be the abode of 
the guilty.’ 

44 Don Pedro, the king, took with him the 
Alcalde of Seville, and they went together through 
the city, till they had found the terrible blazon; 
then they knocked at the door, and Don Guttiere 
opened it himself, for through the window he had 
recognised his illustrious visitor. 

44 4 Don Guttiere,’ said the king, 4 where is Donna 
Mencia?’ 

“ ‘ You shall see her, sir,’ replied the Spaniard. 

44 And conducting the king into the room, where 
the tapers were still burning, and where the basin 
full of warm blood still smoked. 

“ 4 Sire,’ said he, ‘behold her whom you seek.’ 

“ ‘ What had that woman done to you?’ asked the 
king. 

“ ‘ She had betrayed me, sire.’ 

“ ‘ And why did you avenge yourself on her and 
not on her accomplice?’ 

“ c Because her accomplice is the Prince Don 
Henry of Transtamara, brother of Don Pedro, the 
king.’ 

“ ‘Have you a proof of what you are now saying?* 
asked the king. 

“ ‘ There is the prince’s own dagger, which he let 
drop in my wife’s chamber, and which I found on 
coming in.’ 

“ ‘ ’Tis well,’ said the king; ‘have Donna Mencia 
buried, and cause'the door of your house, on which 
is the imprint of a blood-stained hand, to be 
cleansed.’ 

“‘Not so, sire,’ replied Don Guttiere; 4 every 
man who exercises a public occupation is accus- 
tomed to place the sign of his profession on his 
door; I am the physician of my honour, and that 
bloody hand is my sign.’ 

“‘So be it,’ said Don Pedro; ‘let it remain 
there; and may it teach your second wife, if you 
take another bride, the veneration and fidelity 
which she owes to her husband.’” 

“ And nothing more was done,” asked Queen 
Blanche. 

“ Yes, madam,” said th* messenger, “on re-en- 
tering his palace, the king, Don Pedro, exiled the 
infant, Don Henry.” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 




“ Well ! what connection has this story with me?” 
asked the queen, “ and where is the resemblance 
between IXmna Mencia and myself?” 

44 In that, like you, she betrayed her husband’s 
honour,” replied the soldier; “ and in that, as in 
Don Guttiere’s case, whose conduct he approved, 
and to whom he granted pardon, the king, Don 
Pedro, has already executed justice on your accom- 
plice.” 

46 On my accomplice! what mean you, soldier?” 
murmured Blanche, to whom these words recalled 
Don Frederick’s letter, and her past apprehen- 
sions. 

44 1 mean that the grand master is dead,” coldly 
replied the soldier; 44 that he died for the crime of 
high treason against the honour of his king, and 
that guilty of the same crime as him, you must, 
like him, prepare for death.” 

Blanche had remained frozen, not by the an- 
nouncement that she was to die, but by the news 
that him whom she loved was dead. 

44 Dead!” said she; 44 it is then quite true he is 
dead?” 

The most skilful inflection of the human voice 
could scarcely render all the despair and terror 
which the young woman threw into those words. 

“Yes, madam,” resumed the Moorish soldier, 
44 and I have brought with me thirty soldiers to 
escort the corpse of the queen from Medina Sidonia 
to Seville, that the honours due to her rank may 
be rendered her, although guilty.” 

44 Soldier,” said the queen, 44 1 have already 
said that the king, Don Pedro, was my judge, and 
that you were only my executioner.” 

44 Rightly spoken, madam,” said the soldier. 

Then he drew from under his cloak a long and 
pliant rope of silk, at the end of which he made a 
running knot. 

This cold cruelty revolted the queen. 

44 Oh !” she cried, 44 how has the king, Don Pedro, 
been able to find throughout his kingdom a 
Spaniard willing to accept so infamous a commis- 
sion?” 

“ I am no Spaniard— I am a Moor!” said the 
soldier raising his head and putting aside the white 
hood which veiled his face. 

44 Mothril !” she exclaimed, 44 Mothril, the scourge 
of Spain.” 

44 A man of illustrious race, madam,” replied the 
Moor wfith a sneer, 44 and who will not dishonour 
the head of his queen by his touch.” 

And he made a step towards Blanche, the fatal 
rope in his hand. The instinct of self-preserva- 
tion made the young woman recoil from the assas- 
sin,- by a step equal to that he had made in ap- 
proaching her. 

44 Oh ! you will not kill me thus, before I have 
prayed, and in a state of sin!” cried Blanche. 

“ Madam,” replied the ferocious envoy, 44 you 
are not in a state of sin, since you say that you 
are innocent.” 

44 Wretch ! who dure to insult your queen before 
you butcher her. Oh, coward! why have I not 
here some one of nw brave Frenchmen to defend 
me?” 

44 Yes,” said Mothril, sneering, 44 but unfor- 
tunately your brave Frenchmen are on the other 
side of the Pyrennean mountains; and unless your 
God perform a miracle ” 

44 My God is great!” cried Blanche. 

44 Help! sir knight! help!” 

And she rushed ‘towards the door, but before 
she had reached the threshold Mothril had flung 
the rope which stopped on her shoulders. Then 
he tightened the loop, and it was at that moment 


' that the queen on feeling the collar closing on her 
throat, uttered her lamentable cry. It was then 
also that Mauleon, forgetting the advice of his 
squire, rushed in the direction whence the queen’s 
voice was heard. 

44 Help me!” cried the young woman in a stifled 
voice, as she struggled on the floor. 

“Call on, call on,” said the Moor, tightening 
the rope to which the unfortunate captive grasped 
with stiffened fingers; call on, and we shall see 
who first will come to your rescue — your God or 
ycur lover.” 

Suddenly spurs clanked along the passage, then 
before the astonished Moor the knight appeared 
on the threshold. 

The queen uttered a cry in which joy strove 
with pain. Agenor raised his sword, but Mothril, 
with a vigorous arm, forced the queen to arise and 
made a buckler of her body. 

The groans of the unfortunate woman had 
subsided into a low and stifled moaning, her arms 
were convulsed by the violence of pain, and her 
lips were becoming blue. 

“Kebir!” cried Mothril, in Arabic; “Kebir! to 
my rescue.” 

And he covered himself at once with the queen’s 
body, and w r ith one of those formidable scimitars of 
which the interior curve when it seizes a head cuts 
it off, and makes it fall like the blade of wheat 
under the reaper’s sickle. 

“Ah! misbeliever,” exclaimed Agenor, 44 you 
wish to kill a daughter of the royal house of 
France.” 

And he strove to reach Mothril with his sword 
over the queen’s head. 

But at the same moment he felt himself seized 
by the middle of the body, and drawn backwards 
by Kebir, whose tw o arms girdled him with iron. 

He turned to meet his new antagonist, but it was 
a loss of time for his purpose. The queen had 
fallen on her knees; she no longer cried, nor 
groaned; she did not even gasp; she appeared 
dead. 

Kebir sought to find some unguarded spot on 
the knight’s body, where, on unclasping his arms, 
he might drive his dagger, which he held between 
his teeth. 

This scene had taken less time in occurring than 
the lightning in its flash and eclipse. It was time 
enough for Musaron to follow his master, and to 
arrive himself in the queen’s chamber. 

He came. 

The cry which he uttered on seeing what was 
taking place, apprised Agenor of the assistance 
which was approaching. 

44 Attend first to the queen!” cried the knight, 
still in the grasp of the robust Kebir. 

There was an instant silence; then Mauleon 
heard a wdiizzirig sound at his ear, then he felt the 
Moor s arms relaxing. The arrow, launched from 
Musaron’s crossbow, had pierced his throat. 

44 To the door, quickly !” said Agenor; 44 shutoff 
all communication : I will kill the assassin.” 

And, shaking off the corpse of Kebir, w hich had 
remained attached to him in a dying grasp, and 
which fell heavily on the floor, he bounded towards 
Mothril, and before the Moor had time to put 
himself on his guard, he struck him so violent a 
blow r , that the heavy sword cut through the double 
iron mail protecting his head, and pierced to his 
skull. The Moor’s eyes became clouded, hisblaeic 
and thick blood deluged his beard, and he fell on 
Blanche, as if, in his last convulsions, he wished to 
stifle his victim. 

Agenor thrust the Moor aside with his foot, and 


72 


THE IRON' HAND; OR, THE KNTGflT OP MAULEON. 


waning towards the queen, unloosed the cord which 
remained almost entirely hidden in the flesh. A 
long sigh only indicated that the queen w r as not 
yet dead, but all her person seemed already 
paralysed. 

“ The victory is ours !” cried Musaron. “ Sir, 
do you take the young lady by the head, I will 
take „her by the feet, and thus we will bear her 
away.” 

As if she had heard these words— as if she 
wished to assist her deliverers, the queen 
rose up by a convulsive movement, and life re- 
turned to her lips. 

“ It is useless— quite useless,” she said; leave 
me; I am already more than half in the grave; a 
cross is all I want; let me die kissing that symbol 
of our redemption.” 

Agenor gave her the handle of his sword to 
kiss, as that formed a cross. 

“ Alas ! alas,” said the queen ; “ I have been such 
a short time on the earth, and must I already leave 
it? I shall join in heaven my sister virgins. God 
will pardon me, for I have loved and suffered 
much.” 

“Come, come,” said the knight; “ there is still 
time; we will save you.” 

She seized Agenor’s hand. 

“ No, no!” she said; “for me all is over. You 
have done all that you could do. Fly — quit Spain, 
return to France, go and find my sister, relate to 
her all that you have seen, and let her avenge us. 
I will go and tell Don Frederick what a noble and 
faithful friend you are.” 

And detaching from her finger a ring which she 
presented to the knight - 

“ You will return this ring to her,” she said; “ it 
it. the one she gave me at the moment of her de- 
parture, in the name of her husband, King 
Charles;” 

And raising herself a second time to the cross 
of Agenor’s sword, she expired at the moment she 
touched the symbolic iron with her lips. 

“ Sir,” cried Musaron, his ear stretched to catch 
all sound from the passage, “ they are coming, 
they are coming, they run, there are many of 
tb em.” 

“The corpse of my queen must not be found con- 
founded with those of her butchers,” said Agenor. 
“ Help me, Musaron.” 

And he took the corpse of Blanche, seated it 
majestically on a chair of carved wood, and placed 
her foot on MothriFs bloody head, as painters and 
sculptors have placed the foot of the virgin on the 
bruised head of the serpent. 

“ And now let us leave,” said Agenor, “ if in- 
deed we are not surrounded.” 

Two minutes afterwards, the two Frenchmen 
found themselves under the vault of heaven, and 
taking again the direction of the sycamore, they 
saw the corpse of the sentinel, which in the same 
attitude, and always sustained against the wall 
which served as its support, seemed still to watch 
with its large eyes which death had left unclosed. 

They were already on the opposite side of the 
ditch when the brandishing of torches and re- 
doubled cries told them that the secret of the 
tower was discovered. 


CHAPTER XII. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON LEFT FOR FRANCE, 
AND WHAT HAPPENED TO HIM ON THE ROAD. 

Agenor took, to return to France, nearly the same 
road that he had followed to enter bpain. 


Alone, and consequently inspiring no fear, poor 
and therefore awaking no envy, he hoped to per- 
form successfully the mission which the dying 
queen had entrusted to him; however, it was ne- 
cessary to be wary on the road. 

Firstly, of the lepers, who it was said poisoned 
fountains, with a mixture of hair steeped in grease, 
viper’s heads, and toad’s feet: 

Then of the Jews leagued with the lepers and 
generally with every thing animate or inanimate 
that could do mischief to the Christians: 

Then of the King of Navarre, an enemy to the 
King of France, and consequently to the French: 

Then of the “ Jacques,” who having for a long 
while striven to excite the people against the 
nobles, had at last succeeded in rousing the flail 
and pitchfork against the coat of arms: 

Then of the English, traitorously posted in all 
the best corners of the fine kingdom of France, at 
Bayonne, at Bordeaux, in Dauphine, in Normandy, 
in Picardy, and even if they thought fit, in the 
suburbs of Paris. 

Lastly, of the great companies, heterogeneous 
mixtures, compounded of all the preceding ingre- 
dients, and furnishing against the traveller, against 
the inhabitant, against property, beauty, power, 
wealth, an inexhaustibly craving multitude of* 
lepers, Jews, Navarrese, Englishmen, and insurgent 
peasants, without counting that all other countries 
in Europe had furnished to every band overrun- 
ning France, a sample of the most desperate and 
worst part of their population. There wtre even 
Arabs in these curiously variegated great com- 
panies; only through the spirit of contradict’ on, 
they had become Christians, which they might do 
with a better grace, since, on their part, ihe 
Christians had become Arabs. 

These inconveniences, of which we have gi~*en 
but an insufficient list, excepted, Agenor traveled 
in the most easy way in the world. 

The traveller of that time was- under the neces- 
sity of studying, following, and imitatr g the i a- 
nqeuvre of the field sparrow. That bird takes T ot 
a flight, a leap, a motion, without turning his hi td 
expeditiously to the four cardinal points, to see if* 
he cannot perceive a gun or a net, a sling, a d g, 
a child, a rat, or a kite. 

Musaron was that unquiet and pillaging sparrow; 
he had been charged by Agenor with the custody 
of the purse, and did not wish that its slender me- 
diocrity of gilding should be reduced to absolute 
nullity. 

Thus, he guessed the lepers from afar off, scentr-d 
the Jews at five hundred paces distance, saw the 
English in every bush, saluted the Navarrese with 
politeness, showed his long knife and short cross- 
bow to the peasants; as to the great companies he 
dreaded them much less than Mauleon, or rather 
did not dread them at all. 

“ For,’’ said he to his master, “ if we are made 
prisoners, sir, we will enlist ourselves in those 
great companies to get our ransom, and we will 
pay our liberty with the liberty we steal from 
others.” 

“ All that will be very well, when I have ac- 
complished my mission,’ said Agenor; “then any- 
thing may happen that pleases God, but in the 
meantime I hope that nothing w r ill happen to us.” 

They passed thus, without hindrance, through 
Roussillon, Languedoc, Dauphine, the Lyonnuis, 
and arrived at Chalons sur Saone. Previous im- 
punity caused their misfortune: convinced that 
nothing would happen to them now that they were 
so near the post, they risked travelling by night, 
and the morrow of that night, near daybreak, they 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


73 



fell into an ambuscade so numerous and so well 
laid, that there was no possibility of resistance; 
so that the prudent Musaron put his hand on his 
master’s arm, when he was inconsiderately about 
to draw' his sword, and they were taken without 
striking a blow. What they had most dreaded, 
or rather what the knight had most dreaded, had 
happened; they were, both himself and Musaron, 
in the power of a captain of a company, one 
Messire Hugh de Caver ley; that is, of a man who 
was at once an Englishman by birth, a Jew by 
his understanding, an Arab by his character, a 
“Jacques” by his inclinations, a Navarrese by his 
cunning, and almost a leper above all that; for, as 
he said, he had made war in such hot countries 
and had thereby got so accustomed to heat, that 
he could never quit his iron armour and gaunt- 
lets. 

Musaron and the knight were immediately con- 
ducted before this chief. He was a man who wished 
to see everything and question everybody in his 
own person; for, in that time of danger, he feared 


lest some prince in clownish disguise should be 
let slip by his followers, and that he should lose the 
opportunity of making a fortune. 

He was, therefore, very speedily well informed 
of all Mauleon’s affairs, such as could be avowed, 
at least; for as to the mission on which he was 
sent by Queen Blanche, there was no question of 
that in the first instance. The price of a ransom 
was the only thing talked of. 

“ Excuse me,” said Caverley, “ I was there on 
the road like a spider under a beam. I was wait- 
ing for something or somebody, you came, I took 
you; but there was no ill intention against you; 
alas! since King Charles V. has governed the 
country; that is, since the close of the war, we 
don’t gain our livelihood. You are a capital horse- 
man, ariTl I would let you go with all courtesy if 
we lived in ordinary times; but in such a time <>f 
famine as this, d’ye see, we must pick up the crumbs.” 

“ Here are mine,” said Mauleon, showing the 
partizan the bottom of his purse. “ I swear to you 
now in God s name, and by the portion I hope tot 



74 


THE IRON HAND; OB, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


*n paradise, that neither in lands, money, nor in 
any other goods, do I possess anything else. 
Therefore of what use can I be to you? Let me, 
therefore, take my way. 

“ In the hr st place, my young friend,” replied 
the captain, Caverley, glancing at the knight’s 
stalwart frame and martial bearing, “ you would 
help to make a capital effect in the front rank of 
our company; then there is your horse; further, your 
squire; but it is not these things which make you 
a valuable capture in my eyes.” 

“ And what unhappy circumstance,” asked 
Agenor, “ makes me so valuable in your eyes? Tell 
me, I beg.” 

“ You are a knight, are you not?” 

“ Yes, and armed at Narbonne, D” the hand of 
one of the first princes in Christendom.” 

“ Therefore you are a precious hostage for me, 
since you acknowledge that you are a knight.” 

“ A hostage?” 

“ Certainly. Should King Charles take one of 
my men, one of my lieutenants, and want to make 
him swing, 1 threaten to make you swing also, and 
that keeps him in check. If, notwithstanding this 
threat, he really does swing him up, then I have 
you swung up in your turn, and it vexes him to 
have a gentleman hung. But, pardon me,” added 
Caverley, ''‘I see on your hand a jewel which I 
had not hitherto remarked, something resembling 
a ring. Faith ! have the goodness to show me that, 
sir knight. I have a great fancy for well-executed 
trifles; above all, when the costliness of the material 
adds to the value of the workmanship.” 

Mauleon now easily perceived the sort of per- 
son he had to deal with. Captain Caverley was 
the chief of a band; he had made himself a 
leader of brigands, from seeing, as he himself 
said, nothing further to be done by pursuing 
honestly his military profession. 

“ Captain,” said Agenor, withdrawing his hand, 
“ do you respect anything in this world?” 

“ Everything which I fear,” replied the con- 
dottiere; “it is true I fear nothing.” 

“ That is vexatious,” said Agenor, with cool- 
ness, “ as otherwise this ring, which is worth — ” 

“ Three hundred livres of Tournay,” interrupted 
Caverley, casting a glance at the jewel, “accord- 
ing to the weight of gold, and without reckoning 
the workmanship.” 

“Well! this ring, captain, which by your own 
avowal is wor h three hundred livres of Tournay, 
and only that, would, if you had been afraid of 
anything, have brought you a thousand.” 

“How so, pray, explain, my young friend? One 
learns at all ages, and I take great delight in re- 
ceiving instruction.” 

“ Have you a word to stand by, captain?” 

“ I think I had one formerly; but I have 
given it so often, I am afraid that nought re- 
mains.” 

“Well, do you believe in that of others who, not 
having given theirs away, still retain it?” 

“ There is only one man whose word I will 
trust, and that man, sir knight, is not you.” 

“ Who is he?” 

“ He is Messire Bertrand Duguesclin ; but would 
Messire Duguesclin be your surety?” 

“ I do not know him,” said Agenor, “ at least 
personally; but though he is a stranger, yet if you 
allow me to go where I wish, if you allow me to 
deliver this ring to the person destined to receive 
it, I promise you in the name of Messire 
Duguesclin himself, not a thousand livres of 
r I ournay, but a thousand golden crowns.” 

“ I prefer having the three hundred livres which 


the ring is worth, down,” said Caverley, with a 
laugh, extending his hand towards Agenor. 

The knight quickly drew back, and going to a 
window wliich opened on the river; “This ring,” 
he said, drawing it from his finger, and extending 
his arm over the Saone, “ is the ring of Queen 
Blanche, of Castile, and I bear it to the King of 
France. If you give me your permission to de- 
part, which I will trust to, I will promise you a 
thousand golden crowns. If you refuse me, I fling 
this ring into the river, and ring and ransom, you 
lose all.” 

“ Yes, but I keep you, and I make you hang.” 

“ V\ hich is a very slender compensation for so 
skilful a calculator as you are; and the proof that 
you don’t esteem my death at the price of a thou- 
sand crowns is, that you don’t sey no.” 

“ I don’t say no,” replied Caverley, “ be- 
cause ” 

“ Because you are afraid, captain. Say no, and 
the ring is lost, and you may have me hung after- 
wards if you think proper. Well, what say you, 
yes or no?’* 

“ By my troth,” said Caverley, struck with ad- 
miration, “ this is what I call a pretty sort of 
fellow, even to the squire who hasn’t budged. 
May the devil take me! by our holy father the 
Pope’s spleen, I love you, sir knight.” 

“Very good, and I am duly grateful; but 
answer me ” 

“ What do you wish me to answer?” 

“Yes or no; I ask nothing else, and ’tis soon 
said.” 

“ Well then! — yes.” 

“That’s all right,’’ said the knight, replacing 
the ring on his finger. 

“ But on one condition, however,” continued tho 
captain. 

“ What is that ?” 

Caverley was about to reply, when a violent tu- 
mult attracted his attention ; this tumult- occurred 
at the extremity of the village, or rather of the 
camp, seated on the border of the river and sur- 
rounded with forests. Many soldiers showed their 
startled heads at the door, crying out : 

“Captain! captain!” 

“ Very well, very well,” replied the condottiere, 
accustomed to these sort of alarms, “ I am 
coming.” 

Then turning towards the knight : 

“ As for you,’’ said he, “ remain here, twelve 
men will guard you ; I hope that is doing you 
honour, ahem!” v 

“ So be it,” said the knight; “but don’t let thesa 
come near me; for at the first step they make I 
w r ill fling this ring into the Saone.” 

“Do not approach him, but do not quit him 
either,” said Caverley to his bandits. 

And, saluting the knight, without having raised 
for an instant the visor of his helmet, he went at 
a step which marked the carelessness of habit, to 
that part of the camp where the noise w'as 
greatest. 

During all the time of his absence, Mauleon. 
and his squire remained standing near the window ; 
the guards were at the other side of the room and 
remained stationary before the door. 

The tumult continued, although gradually di- 
minishing; at last it subsided altogether, and half 
an hour after his departure, Hugh de Caverley re- 
appeared, bringing with him in his train, a new 
prisoner, just captured by the company, which w as 
spread over the country like a net fer catching 
larks. 

The prisoner, of a tall and well-knit figure, ap» 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 75 


peared to be a country gentleman; he was accoutred 
in a rusty helmet and a cuirass, which might have 
been picked up by one of his ancestors on the field 
of battle of lioncesvaux. In this equipment the 
first disposition he provoked was one to laughter; 
but something haughty in his bearing and bold in 
his countenance, though he strove to assume an 
air of humility, enjoined, if not respect, at least 
circumspection on the railers. 

“ Have you searched him well?” asked Caverley. 

“ Yes, captain,” replied a German lieutenant, 
to whom Caverley was indebted for the happy 
choice of the position he occupied — a choice sug- 
gested, indeed, to the lieutenant, not by the ad- 
vantages of the position, but by the excellence of 
the wines which the vintage of the Saone pro- 
duced. 

“ When I say him,” resumed the captain, “ I 
mean him and his followers.” 

“Be at your ease — the operation has been 
thoroughly performed,” replied the German lieute- 
nant. 

“ And what did you find on them?” 

“ One mark of gold and two marks of silver.” 

“ Bravo !” said Caverley ; “ the day appears to be 
a lucky one.” 

Then turning towards his new capture : 

“ Now,” said he, “ let us chat a little, my pala- 
din. Although you strongly resemble a nephew of 
the Emperor Charlemagne, I should not be sorry 
to learn who you are from your own mouth. Tell 
me then at once frankly, without restriction and 
withoi tt reserve.” 

“ 1 am, as you may learn by my accent,” re- 
plied the unknown, “ a poor gentleman of Arragon 
come to visit France.” 

“ You have done quite right,” said Caverley. 
“ France is a fine country.” 

“ Yes,” said the lieutenant, “ only the moment 
you have chosen is unlucky.” 

Mauleon could not prevent himself smiling, as 
he could appreciate, better than any, the justice of 
this observation. 

As to the foreign gentleman, he remained im- 
moveable. 

“ We must get on,” said Caverley; “ you have as 
yet told us only your country, that is half of what 
we want to know. Now what is your name?” 

“ Should I tell it you, you would not know it,” 
replied the knight; “ besides, I have no name, I am 
a bastard.” 

“ Unless you are a Jew, a Turk, or a Moor,” 
replied the captain, “you have a baptismal name 
at least.” 

“ My name is Henry,” answered the knight. 

“You did right to tell me. Now raise your 
visor a little, that we may see your good Arragonese 
face.” 

The unknown hesitated and cast his eyes around 
him, as if to make sure that .there was no one there 
who knew him. 

Caverley, impatient at this delay, made a sign, 
on which one of the adventurers approached the 
prisoner, and striking the button of the helmet 
with the hilt of his sword, raised the iron visor, 
which concealed the countenance of the un- 
known. 

Mauleon uttered an exclamation ; that face was 
the most striking portrait of the unhappy grand 
master, Don Frederick, of whose death, however, 
he could not doubt, since he had held his head in 
his hands. 

Musaron grew pale with horror, and made the 
sign of the cross. 

“Ah! ah! you know each other,” said Caverley, 


looking alternately at Mauleon and the knight 
with the rusty helmet. 

At this remark, the unknown looked at 
Mauleon with some anxiety; but as he perceived 
at the first glance that he now beheld the knight 
for the first time, his countenance became more 
composed. 

“ Well ?” said Caverley. 

“ You are mistaken,” said the last comer, “ I do 
not know that gentleman.” 

“ And you?” 

“ Nor I neither.” 

“Why then did you just now utter such an ex- 
clamation?” asked the captain, still somewnat in- 
credulous, notwithstanding the double denial of 
his prisoners. 

“ Because I thought, when the soldier struck his 
visor, that he was about to take oif his head.” 

Caverley laughed. 

“ We must have a very bad reputation, then,” 
said he; “but tell me frankly, sir knight, do you 
or do you not know this Spaniard?” 

“ On my knightly word,” answered Agenor, “ I 
see him now for the first time.” 

Yet, even while he made this oath which aflirmed 
the simple truth, Mauleon remained quite agitated 
by that extraordinary resemblance. 

Caverley directed his glance first on one, then 
on the other. The unknown knight had become 
quite impenetrable, and seemed a marble statue. 

“Let us get on,” said Caverley, impatient to 
• decipher this mystery; “you are the first in date, 

Chevalier de I have forgotten to ask 

your name, but perhaps you also are a bastard.” 

“ Yes,” said the kii'ght, “ I am.” 

“ Good,” said the adventurer. “ Then you have 
no name either?” 

“Yes,” said the knight, “I have one; I am 
called Agenor, and as I was born at Mauleon, I 
am usually called the Bastard of Mauleon/ 

Caverley cast a rapid glance at the unknown, to 
see if the name pronounced by the knight had 
produced any impression. 

Not a muscle of his face moved. 

“ Well, Bastard of Mauleon,” said Caverley, 
“you were the first comer; we will settle your 
business first, then we will pass on to that of Sir 
Henry. As we were saying, the ring for two 
thousand crowns.” 

“For a thousand crowns,” replied Agenor. 

“ l r ou think so?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“It may be so. The ring then for a thousand 
crowns. But you certify that it really is the ring of 
Blanche de Bourbon.” 

“ Yes,” said the knight. 

The unknown now made in his turn a movement 
of surprise, which did not escape Mauleon. 

“ Queen of Castile,” continued Caverley. 

“ Queen of Castile,” resumed Agenor. 

The unknown became doubly attentive. 

“ Sister-in-law to King Charles V.” again re- 
sumed the captain. 

“ Sister-in-law to the kino-. Charles V.” 

The unknown had become all ears. 

“The same,” asked Caverley. “who is a pri- 
soner in the Castle of Medina Sidonia, by the 
orders of the king Don Pedro, her husband?” 

“ The same who has lately been strangled by 
the orders of her husband, Don Pedro, in the 
Castle of Medina Sidonia,” replied the unknown, in 
a cold but earnest tone of voice. 

Mauleon looked on him with astonishment. 

“ Ah ! ah!” said Caverley, “ matters are becom- 
ing complicated.” 


TIIE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 



“ How did you learn that fact?” asked Mauleon; 
“ I thought I was the first to bring the news to 
France.” 

“Did I not tell you,” replied the unknown, 
“ that I was a Spaniard, and came from Arragon? 
I learnt that catastrophe, which just before my de- 
parture was .making great noise in Spain.” 

“ But if Queen Blanche of Bourbon be dead,” 
asked Caverley; “how is it that you have her 
ring?” 

“ Because she gave it me before dying, that I 
might bear it to her sister the Queen of France, 
and tell her at the same time who caused her 
death, and how she died.” 

“ You were present then at her last moments?” 
asked the knight with interest. 

“ Yes,” replied Agenor; “ and it was even I who 
killed her assassin.” 

“A Moor?” asked the unknown. 

“ Mothril,”. replied the knight. 

“ He was the man, but you did not kill him.” 

“ How so ?” 

“You only wounded him.” 

“Zounds!” said Musaron; “ had I only known 
that, I, who had still eleven crossbolts in my 
quiver.” 

“ Well,” said Caverley, “ all this may have very 
great interest for you, gentlemen, but for me, not 
the slightest in the world, seeing that I am neither 
a Spaniard nor a Frenchman.” 

“Right,” said Mauleon; “then the matter is 
agreed on. You keep what I had with me, but res- 
tore me my liberty and that of my squire.” 

“ Nothing was said about the squire,” said 
Caverley. 

“Because it was understood without; you leave 
me the ring, and in exchange for the ring, I give 
you a thousand livres of Tournay.” 

“Just so.” said the captain, “but there was still 
a little condition.” 

“Another condition?” 

“ Which 1 w is about to tell you at the moment 
we were interrupted.” 

“’Tis true,” said Agenor, “I recollect; and 
what was this condition?” 

“ It is, that besides the thousand livres at which 
I esteem the* safe conduct which I give you, you 
shall also owe me a term of service in m}' company 
during the time of the first campaign on which it 
may please King Charles V. to employ us, or 
which it may please me to make on my own 
account.” 

Agenor started with surprise. 

“ Ah! such are my conditions,” Caverley went 
on; “ it must be thus or not at all. You will sign 
that you belong to the company, and having con- 
tracted that engagement, you are free for the 
present, that is to say.” 

“ And if I do not return?” said Mauleon. 

“ Oh, you will return,” replied Caverley, “ as 
you pretend that you have a word of honour.” 

“Well! I accept; but with one reservation, and 
one only.” 

“ What is that?” 

“ That you shall not, under any pretext, make 
me bear arms against the King of France.” 

“ You are right; I did not think of that,” said 
Caverley; “ I who have no king but the King of 

England; and, moreover We will therefore 

have an engagement drawn out, and you will 
sign it.” 

“ I don’t know how to write,” said the knight, 

^ ho was a sharer without any shame in the i 
general ignorance of the nobles of that period. | 
“ But my squire will write.” I 


“ And you will make your cross,” said Ca- 
verley. 

“ I will do so.” 

He took a parchment, a pen, and tendered them 
to Musaron, who wrote to his dictation. 

“ I, Agenor, Chevalier de Mauleon, engage as 
soon as I shall have accomplished my mission to 
the king, Charles V., to return to Messire Hugh de 
Caverley, wherever he may be, and to serve, I 
and my squire, during all this first campaign, 
provided this first campaign be not directed 
against the King of France, nor against my liege 
lord, Monseigneur the Count of Foix.” 

“And the thousand livres of Tournay?” in- 
timated Caverley. 

“ Right,” said Agenor, “ I was forgetting them.” 

“ Yes, but I have a memory. ’ 

Agenor continued dictating to Musaron. 

“ And I will further remit to the said Sir Hugh 
de Caverley the sum of a thousand" livres of Tour- 
nay, which I acknowledge I owe him in exchange 
for the temporary liberty he has sold me.” 

The squire added the date of the day and year, 
then the knight took the pen, much as he would 
have grasped a dagger, and boldly traced a sign in 
the form of a cross. 

Caverley took the parchment, read it with the 
most scrupulous attention, took some sand, dried 
the writing, neatly folded it, and passed it under 
his sword-belt. 

“ Now,” said he, “ all is right. You may go. 
You are free.” 

“ Listen,” said the unknown. “ As I have no 
time to lose, and as I also am called to Paris by 
affairs of importance, I offer to redeem myself on 
the same conditions as this knight. Does that 
suit you? Reply, but reply quickly.” 

Caverley began laughing. 

“I know nothing of you,” he said. 

“ Do you know more of Messire Agenor de 
Mauleon, who appears to have been only an hour 
in your hands? ’ 

“Yes,” said Caverley; “to observers like me, . 
not so much as an hour is requisite to form our 
estimate of men, and during the hour that he has 
passed here, the knight has done something which 
has made me know him.” 

The Spanish knight gave a strange smile. 

“ You refuse me then,” he said. 

“ Point-blank.” 

“You will repent it.” 

“ Pshaw !” 

“Listen! You have taken all that I possessed; I 
have, therefore, nothing to offer you at this moment. 
Keep my followers as hostages, keep my baggage, 
and allow me to leave with my horse only.” 

“Truly! a fine favour you propose conferring; 
your baggage and people are mine, since I have 
them in keeping.” 

“ Then allow me at least to say two words 
to this young knight, as he is to depart freely. 

“ Two words on the subject of your ransom?” 

“Certainly; at what sum do you rate it?” 

“ At the sum taken fromyou and your followers; 
that is to say, at one mark of gold and two of 
silver.” 

“ So be it,” said the knight. 

“ Well, then,” resumed Caverley, “ tell him what- 
ever you think fit.” 

“ Listen, sir knight,” said the Spanish gentle- 
man; and both withdrew to talk more at their 
ease. 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


a 


CHAPTER XIH. 

HOW THE KNIGHT OF ARRAGON PURCHASED HIS 
RANSOM FOR TEN THOUSAND GOLDEN CROWNS. 

Captain Caverley kept his eyes attentively fixed 
on the two strangers while they conversed ; but the 
Spaniard had drawn Agenor sufficiently far from 
the adventurer to prevent any words they pro- 
nounced from reaching him. 

“ Sir knight,” said the unknown, “we are now 
beyond ear-shot, but not out of sight : lower, there- 
fore, I beg, your visor, so that you may wholly 
escape the penetration of all those who surround 
you.” 

“ And you, my lord,” said Agenor, “ allow me 
before lowering your own, to look a few moments 
on your face. Believe me, I feel a mournful satis- 
faction in doing so, which you cannot compre- 
hend.’ 5 

The unknown smiled sadly. 

“ Sir knight,’ 5 said he, “ you may look your fill 
at me, as I shall not lower my visor. Although 
not more than five or six years older than your- 
self, I have suffered enough to have a mastery 
over my countenance; it is an obedient servant 
which never says anything but what I wish it to 
say, and if it recalls to you the features of a person 
to whom you felt attachment, so much the better; 
that will encourage me to ask your good offices.’’ 

“ Speak,” said Agenor. 

“You appear, sir knight, to have quite won 
your way in the mind of the bandit who has made 
us prisoners. It does not appear to be the same 
in my case, as he retains me obstinately, while he 
permits you to pursue your road.” 

“ Yes, my lord,” answered Agenor, surprised to 
discover that since they had spoken apart, the 
Spaniard, though retaining a slight accent, still 
spoke the purest French. 

“ Well,” said the native of Arragon, “ whatever 
be your need of continuing your journey, mine is 
not less great; and it is necessary that, at what- 
ever price, I should get out of that man’s bands. 5 ’ 

“ My lord,” said Agenor, “ if you swear to me 
that you are a knight, if you give me your word 
of honour, I will pledge my honour to Captain 
Caverley, that he may allow you to depart with me.” 

“ That, 5 exclaimed the stranger with glee, “ is 
precisely the service which I was about to beg 
of you. You are as intelligent, sir knight, as you 
are courteous. 5 ’ 

Agenor bowed. 

“ A nd so you are a noble, 5 ’ he said. 

“ Yes, Sir Agenor, and I may even add, that 
few gentlemen can boast a higher nobility than 
mine.” 

“ Then,” said the knight; “you have another 
name than that which you have given me.” 

“ Yes, certainly,” replied the knight; “ but this 
is the very point in which your courtesy will be 
greatest; you must be contented with my word of 
honour, without knowing my name, for that name 
I must not divulge.” 

“ Not even to a man whose honour you invoke, 
not even to a man whom you ask to be your 
surety?” said Agenor, with surprise. 

“ Sir knight,’’ said the unknown, “ I reproach 
myself with this circumspection as unworthy of 
y*nn>elt' and me; but weighty interests, which are 
not mine*only, make it obligatory. Obtaii, there- 
fore. my liberty at whatever price you please, and 
whatever that price be, on the honour of a gentle- 
man, I will pay it. Then, if you will permit me 
to add a word, I can say that you will not repent 
having obliged me in this instance.” 


“Enough, enough, my lord,” said Mauleon, 
“demand my services, but do not purchase them in 
advance.” 

“ At a later opportunity, Sir Agenor,” said the 
unknown, “ you will appreciate the good faith 
which makes me thus address you. I might have 
deceived you for the time and told you a false 
name. You do not know me; you would, therefore, 
have been obliged to think it satisfactory.” 

“ I just now thought of that,” resumed Mau- 
leon. “ You will, therefore, be freed at the same 
time as myself, my lord, if Captain Hugh de Ca- 
verley preserves me in his good graces.’ 

Agenor left the stranger who remained at the 
same spot, and returned towards Caverley, who 
was impatiently awaiting the result of the con- 
versation. 

“ Well!” asked the captain, “are you more ad- 
vanced than myself, my friend, and do you know 
who this Spaniard is?” 

“ A rich Toledo merchant who comes to trade 
in France, and who pretends that his detention 
would cause him serious injury. He demands my 
surety, would you accept it?” 

“ Are you willing to tender it?” 

“Yes. Having shared his situation for an in- 
stant, it was natural that I should sympathise 
with him. Come, captain, let us settle the matter 
roundly.” 

Caverley ruminated. 

“ A rich merchant, 55 he said, “ and one who 
needs his liberty to drive his trade — « — ” 

“ Sir,” v. hispered Musaron, in his master’s ear, 
“I think you have just used a very imprudent 
expression.” 

“ I know what I am about,” replied Agenor. 

Musaron bowed in homage to his master’s 
discretion. 

“ A rich merchant!” repeated Caverley. “ The 
devil! then it will b > dearer you undt'rstand than 
for a gentleman, and our first price of one gold 
and two silver marks cannot stand.” 

“I have, therefore, told you frankly how the 
matter stands, captain; for I do not wish to pre- 
vent your drawing from your prisoner a ransom 
suitable to his position.” 

“ Decidedly, sir knight, as I have already said, 
you are a good sort of fellow. And what does he 
offer? He must have said something to you on 
that head, during your long conversation.” 

“ Well,” said Agenor, “ he has told me I might 
go so far as five hundred crowns of silver or gold. 
Of gold— five hundred silver crowms would be 
robbing you. 5 ’ 

Caverley made no reply, he still calculated. 

“ Five hundred golden crowns,” said he, “ would 
suffice from an ordinary merchant, but you have 
said a rich merchant — remember that.” 

“ I remember it also,” said the knight, “ and I 
see I did wrong to tell you so, sir captain; but 
as one must bear the penalty of one’s wrongs, 
well, we will rate the ransom at a thousand 
crowns, and, if I must pay five hundred for my 
indiscretion, well, I will pay them.’ 5 

“ That cannot be enough for a rich merchant,” 
replied Caverley. “A thousand golden crowns! 
why, ’tis at most a knight’s ransom.” 

Agenor questioned with his eye the person 
whose interests he was defending, to know if he 
might engage himself farther. The Spaniard gave 
a sign of acquiescence. 

“Then,” said the knight, “let us double the 
sum, and make an end of it.” 

“ ’Two thousand golden crowns,” resumed the 
condottiere, beginning to feel astonishment at the 


78 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


high price at which the unknown rated his per- 
son. “ Two thousand golden crowns; but he is 
then the richest merchant of Toledo! No, indeed, 
I think I have made a good hit, and Pll turn it 
to account. Let him go on doubling, and then 
we will see.’’ 

Agenor looked again at his client, who made 
him a second sign resembling the first. 

“ Well,” said the knight, “ as you are so exacting, 
we will go as far as four thousand golden crowns.” 

“ Four thousand golden crowns!” cried Caver- 
ley, at once confounded and delighted; “then he 
is a Jew, and I am too good a Christian to let a 
3 ew go under ” 

“How much?” repeated Agenor. 

“ Under” — (the captain hesitated a moment at 
the sum he was about to mention, so exorbitant 
did it seem even to himself) — “ under ten thousand 
golden crowns. Ah! i’faith, now the word’s out 
at last, and its nothing on my word of honour.” 

The unknown, by an almost imperceptible sign, 
made known his assent. 

“There’s my hand,” said Agenor, extending it 
to Caverley; “ the sum will do, and our bargain’s 
concluded.” 

“An instant, an instant,” exclaimed Caverley; 
“ by the Pope’s spleen, I can't take the knight’s 
.surety for ten thousand crowns. I should need a 
prince as a guarantee for such a sum, and I know 
many even of such that I would not accept.” 

“Promise-breaker!” said Mauleon, walking 
straight to Caverley, and putting his hand to his 
sword, “ I think you mistrust me.” 

■ “Eh! no, my boy,” replied Caverley, “you are 
mistaken; it is not you that I mistrust, but him. 
Do you imagine, perchance, that once out of my 
clutches, he will pay me ten thousand golden 
crowns. At the first cross-road he will give you 
the slip, and you will never see him again; he has 
been so magnificent in his words, or, if you like it 
better, in his gestures, for I n /ticedthe signs he made 
you, only because he has no intention of paying,” 

Notwithstanding the imperturbable self-posses- 
sion of which the stranger had boasted, Agenor 
could see the flush of rage mantle his countenance; 
but he almost immediately recovered his self-com- 
mand, and making a princely gesture to the knight: 

“ Here,” said ne, “ Sir Agenor, I have yet an- 
other word to add.” 

“ Do not go,” resumed Caverley; “it is to seduce 
you by fine words, and leave the ten thousand 
golden crowns on your shoulders.” 

But the knight instinctively felt that the Spa- 
niard was even something more than he appeared; 
he approached him, therefore, with entire confi- 
dence, and even with a certain deference. 

“Thanks, loyal knight!” said the Spaniard, in 
an under tone; “ you have done well to answer for 
me and my word; you have nothing to fear; I 
would pay that Caverley on the very instant if 
such were my pleasure, for I have in my horse’s 
saddle diamonds to the value of more than three 
hundred thousand golden crowns ; but the wretch 
would accept my ransom, and after having taken 
it. would not restore me my liberty. This, there- 
fore, is what you will do: you will change horses 
with me, you will depart, and you will leave me 
here; then, at the first town you reach, you will 
unrip the saddle, you will take from it a leather 
sack, and from that leather sack you will take 
diamonds sufficient to make the value of ten 
thousand golden crowns; then, with a respectable 
escort, you will return in quest of me.” 

“ My lord,” said Agenor, “who, in heaven’s name, 
are you that can dispose of so many resources?” 


r “ I think I have already shown you confidence 
sufficient by placing in your hands all that I 
possess, to make it unnecessary that I should tell 
you my name.” 

“ My lord ! my lord ! ” said Agenor, “ truly now 
I tremble, and you know not how many scruple^ be- 
set me. That strange resemblance, your wealth, the 

mystery which surrounds you My lord, I have 

interests to defend in France — sacred interests— 
and, perhaps, these interests are opposetkto yours.” 

“ Answer me,” said the unknown, with the tone 
of a man accustomed to command; “you are going 
to Paris, are you not?” 

“ Yes,” said the knight. 

“ You are going there to deliver to King Charles 
Y. the Queen of Castile’s ring?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ You are going there to demand vengeance in 
her name?” t 

“ Yes.” 

“ Against the king, Don Pedro?” 

“ Against the king, Don Pedro.” 

“ Then have no fear,” resumed the Spaniard ; “our 
interests are the same, for the king, Don Pedro, 

has killed my queen; and I, also, have sworn 

to revenge Donna Blanche.” 

“ Is what you have said just now the real truth?” 
asked Agenor. 

“ Sir knight,” said the unknown, in a firm and 
majestic tone, “look at me well. You say that I 
resemble some one of your acquaintance; tell me 
who that person was?” 

“ Oh! my unfortunate friend!” exclaimed the 
knight; “oh, noble grand master! my lord, you re- 
semble so much, that you might be mistaken for 
him, his highness Don Frederick.” 

“ Yes, do I not?” said the unknown, with a 
smile; “ a strange likeness— a fraternal linen ess.” 

“ Impossible!” said Agenor, looking at the 
Spaniard almost with terror. 

“ Go to the nearest town, sir knight,” resumed 
the unknown; “sell the diamonds to a Jew, and 
tell the chief of the Spanish troop that Don Henry, 
of Transtamara, is the prisoner of Captain Caver- 
ley. Be calm, I see you tremble through your 
armour. Recollect that we ^ro observed.” 

Agenor, in fact, was trembling with surprise. 
He saluted the prince move respectfully, perhaps, 
than was befitting, and we«it to rejoin Caverley, 
who met him half wav. 

“ Well!” said the captain, placing his hand on 
his shoulder, “ he has line words, golden words, 
and you, poor boy are his dupe!” 

“ Captain.” said Agenor, “ this merchant’s 
words are of gold indeed; for he has pointed out a 
means by which nis ransom may be paid you 
before this evening.” 

“ The ten thousand golden crowns?” 

“ The ten tnvmsand golden crowns.” 

“ Nothing is more easy,” said the unknown, 
coming forwurd; “the knight will continue his 
way to a piace which he knows, and where I have 
some mo«ey deposited g he will bring you this 
money to the amouut of ten sacks, each holding a 
thousand golden crowns. You shall see this 
monev, you shall handle it, that you may be 
thoroughly convinced, and when you are con- 
vinced, when the gold is in your coffers, you will 
let me go. Is that asking too much? and is it 
agreed to that effect £” 

“ Agreed. Yes, truly, if you perform it,” said 
Caverley, who thought himself dreaming. Then 
turning towards his lieutenant: “Here is one who 
rates himself dear,” he said, “ we will see how he 
pays his value.” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


79 


A genor looked at the prince. 

44 Sire de Mauleon,” said this latter, 44 in ac- 
knowledgment of the good office which you have 
rendered me, and the gratitude I owe for it, let us, 
according to the brotherly custom of knights, ex- 
change our horses and our swords; perhaps you 
will lose by the change, but I will coniDensate you 
afterwards.” 

Agenor returned thanks. Caverley, who had 
heard, began to laugh. 

‘ He is robbing you again,” he whispered to 
the young man. “I have seen his horse, it is not 
so good as yours. Decidedly he is neither knight, 
merchant, nor Jew; he is an Arab.” 

The prince quietly sat down to a table, and 
made a sign to Musaron to draw up a second 
engagement resembling the first, then when drawn 
up, Agenor, who had given his surety for the 
prince, put his cross to it, as he had done with his 
own ; then after Captain Caverley had examined it 
with his customary care, the knight left for 
Chalons, which could be perceived on the other 
side of the Saone. Everything turned out as the 
prince had stated. Agenor found in the saddle 
the little leathern bag, and in the bag the diamonds, 
lie sold to the value of twelve thousand crowns, 
for the prince, entirely despoiled by Caverley, 
needed to replenish his purse; then, while return- 
ing to the camp, he discovered the Spanish cap- 
tain whom Don Henry had pointed out to him, 
related to him what had befallen the prince, and 
caused him and his followers to accompany him 
as far as a little wood at about a quarter of a 
league's distance from the camp ; there the 
Spaniards stopped and Agenor went on. Matters 
were arranged with better faith than the knight 
had hoped for. Caverley counted and recounted 
his golden crowns, heaving great sighs, for it then 
occurred to him, that a man who paid w'ith such 
promptitude, would have paid him twice as much 
had he only asked for it. 

However it was necessary to decide ; and as the 
knight had strictly adhered to his word, to do 
honour to his own. 

Caverley therefore allowed the two young men 
to depart, but not without reminding Agenor that 
his debt was not discharged, and that he owed a 
thousand livres of Tournay, and his services 
during an entire campaign. 

44 1 hope that you will never return to those 
bandits,” said the prince, as soon as they were free. 

44 Alas!” said Agenor, 44 there is no help for it.” 

44 1 will pay all that is necessary to buy you off.” 

44 You cannot buy off my word, prince,” replied 
Agenor, 4 and my word is given.” 

44 Thank God ! ’ said the prince, 44 1 have not 
given mine, and I will have Caverley hung as sure 
as we were born. I shall thus have no regret for 
his profiting by my golden crowns.” 

At that moment they arrived near the little 
wood, where the Spanish captain with his twenty 
lances lay in ambush, and Henry, delighted at so 
easy a delivery, found himself again with his 
friends. 

Such was the end of the scrape into which the 
prince and knight fell together, and whence the 
knight’s word of honour delivered the prince. 

On his part, Agenor, who had started without 
money or friends, now found a treasure almost at 
his disposal, and a prince his protector. 

Musaron made a thousand dissertations on the 
subject, the one more ingenious than the other; 
but these dissertations, wholly of a philosophical 
character, are too much known from antiquity 
downwards, to need repetition here. 


However, he ended these dissertations by a ques- 
tion too important to be passed over in silence. 

44 My lord,” he said, 44 1 cannot well understand 
how, having twenty lances at your disposal, you 
should have journeyed only with one squire and 
three servants.” 

44 My dear sir,” said the prince, with a laugh, 44 it 
is because the king, Don Pedro, my brother, has 
sent spies and assassins on all the roads leading 
from Spain to France. Too brilliant a retinue 
would have caused me to be recognised, and I 
wished to remain incognito. Darkness suits me 
better than broad day. Besides I wish it to be 
said: Henry left Spain with three servants, and 
returned with an entire army. Don Pedro, on 
the contrary, had a whole army in Spain, and left 
it alone.” 

“Brothers!” muttered Agenor, 44 brothers!” 

“ My brother has killed my brother,” resumed 
Henry, of Transtamara, 44 and I will avenge my 
brother.” 

44 Sir,” said Musaron, availing himself of a mo- 
ment when the prince was conversing with his 
lieutenant, 44 there is a pretext w hich Don Henry, 
of Transtamara, would not resign for another ten 
thousand crowns.” 

“How like he is to that valiant grand master! 
Did you remark it, Musaron?” 

44 Sir,” said the squire, 44 Don Frederick was 
fair and this one is red; the grand master’s eye 
was black, and his is grey; one had an aquiline 
nose, the other has a vulture’s beak; the first was 
slender, the second is thin; Don Frederick had 
fire on his cheeks, Don Henry, of Transtamara, has 
blood: it is not Don Frederick that he resembles, 
but rather Don Pedro. Two vultures, Sir Agenor, 
two vultures. 

44 ’Tis true,” thought Mauleon; “and they fight 
over the body of the dove/' 


CHAPTER XIV. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON DELIVERED TO 
KING CHARLES V. THE RING OF HIS SISTER- 
IN-LAW, QUEEN BLANCHE OF CASTILE 

In the garden of a palatial edifice reared in the Rue 
Saint Paul, but still incomplete in many of its parts, 
walked a man from twenty -five to twenty -six years 
of age. He was clad in a long dark-coloured gown 
doubled with black velvet, and girdled at the waist 
by a cord, of which the tassels reached his feet. 
At variance with the custom of his time, he bore 
neither sword nor dagger, nor any distinctive mark 
of nobility. His only ornament of price was a 
small circlet of golden fleurs-de-lis, encompassing 
one of those black velvet caps which preceded 
the fashion of hoods. This man had all the signs 
of a pure Frankish descent: he had fair hair cut 
straight as a sign of high birth ; blue eyes, and a 
chesnut-coloured beard; his face, though indicating 
the age we mentioned, bore not the imprint of 
passion; its grave and reflective character ar.d 
nounced the man of deep thought and prolonged 
meditation. From time to time he stopped, allow- 
ing his head to fall on his breast, and his hands to 
hang down, which two large greyhounds going by 
his side, pausing or proceeding as he did, forthwith 
bagan to lick. 

At some distance from this man, a young page 
of careless mien, 1 ant against a tree, bearing a 
hooded falcon on his wrist, and playing with the 
bird of prey, which its golden bells showed to be a 
favourite. 

In the more remote parts of the garden might 
be heard the joyous car .filings of the birds which 


80 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


were taking possession of the new royal domicile, 
for that, pensive-looking man was no other than 
King Charles V., who had governed France as Re- 
gent, while his father, King John, the slave of his 
plighted word, had remained a prisoner in England. 
This studious monarch (who of all our kings has 
alone deserved to be termed the Wise by posterity) 
not finding sufficient seclusion and quiet in the 
Chateau of the Louvre, or the Palace of the Cite, 
was building this fine new hotel* to replace them. 

In the alleys were seen passing and repassing 
the numerous servants of this sumptuous mansion, 
and over the impatient cries of the falcon, the 
distant w'arbling of the birds, or the words inter- 
changed by the servants as they passed each other, 
was heard at intervals, like tlie sound of thunder, 
the roaring of the great lions which King John 
had brought from Africa, and which were shut up 
in deep excavations. 

King Charles V. followed one alley of this 
garden, turning as often as he reached a certain 
point, so that he might not lose sight of the gate 
of the hotel, which, by a flight of six steps without, 
led to the terrace at which the alley terminated. 

At times he stopped, fixing his eyes on the gate 
by which he seemed to expect somebody, and al- 
though that person appeared eagerly expected, yet 
without his face marking the least impatience at 
each deferred anticipation, he resumed his prome- 
nade at the same step, and with the same pensive 
serenity. 

At last a man dressed in black, holding an ebony 
writing desk and parchments, appeared at the top 
of the steps. He cast a glance over the garden 
into which he was about to descend, and perceiv- 
ing the king, went straight to him. 

“Ah! ’tis you, doctor,” said Charles, making 
some steps to meet him, “I was expecting you ; do 
you come from the Louvre?” 

“Yes, sire.” 

“Well, has any messenger returned from my 

embassies ?” 

“ No one; only two knights, who appear to have 
made a long journey, have just arrived, and asked 
the honour of being presented to your highness, to 
whom they had matters they said of the first im- 
portance to communicate.” 

“ What have you done?” 

“ I have brought them with me, and they await 
the king’s good pleasure in one of the halls of the 
hotel.” 

“ And no new r s from his holiness, Pope 
Urban V.?” 

“ No, sire.” 

“No news from Duguesclin, whom I sent to 
him?” 

“Not yet; but we cannot fail to receive them 
soon, since he sent word to your highness ten 
days^go, that on the following morning he would 
leave Avignon.” 

For an instant the king remained pensive and 
almost perplexed; then, as if taking a resolu- 
tion, 

“Well, doctor,” said he, “let us see the dis- 
patches.” 

And the king, trembling as if every new letter 
had to tell him some new' misfortune, sat down 
under a bower, where the w r arm rays of the autumn 
sun pi < reed through the encompassing honey- 
suckles. 

The doctor opened a portfolio which he held 

• It is probably superfluous to observe that hfitel in 
French is used to designate public edifices and noble resi- 
dences, as in Hotel de Ville, Hotel Rainbouiile., &c. 


under his arm, and drew out several bulky letter* 
He opened one at hazard. 

“ Well!” said the king. 

“A message from Normandy,” replied the 
doctor; “the English have burnt one town and 
two villages.” 

“ Notwithstanding the peace,” murmured the 
king; “notwithstanding the treaty of Bretigny, 
which costs us so dear !” 

“ What will you do, sire?” 

“ I will send some money,” said the king. 

“A message from the Forez.” 

“ Go on,” said the king. 

“The great companies have descended on the 
banks of the Saone. They have sacked three 
towns, cut down the crops, torn up the vines, and 
carried off the cattle. They have sold one hundred 
women.” 

The king hid his face in his hands^ 

“ But is not Jacques de Bourbon in that quar- 
ter?” said he; “he had promised to rid me of all 
these robbers!” 

“ Wait,” said the doctor, opening a third dis- 
patch. 

“ Here is a letter relating to him. He encountered 
the great companies at Brignais, gave battle; 
but ” 

The doctor hesitated. 

“ But,” resumed the king, taking the letter from 
his hands, “ let us see what it is?” 

“ Read yourself, sire.” 

“Defeated and killed!” murmured the king; “a 
prince of the house of France butchered by these 
banditti! And our holy father sends me no reply. 
Yet the distance from Avignon is not so great.” 

“What are your orders, sire?” asked the doctor. 

“ Nothing. What would you that I order in 
Duguesclin’s absence? And amongst all this, has 
no messenger come from my brother the King of 
Hungary?” 

“ No, sire,” timidly replied the doctor, who saw 
the load of calamities pressing with accumulated 
weight on the unhappy king. 

“ And Brittany?” 

“ The war still continues; the Count de Mont- 
fort has had successes.’* 

Charles Y. raised to Heaven a look less of 
despair than of meditation. 

“Great God!” he murmured, “wilt thou thus 
abandott the kingdom of France. My father w as 
a good but too warlike a king; I, my God, have 
lived piously; I have always sought to spare the 
blood of thy creatures, looking on those over 
whom you have placed me as men of whom I was 
to render you an account, and not as slaves whose 
blood might flow’ at my caprice. And yet no one 
has borne good w r ill to me on account of my 
humanity, not even thou, oh! my G <d. I wish to 
rear a dyke against this barbarism which is making 
the world fall back on chaos. The intention I 
am sure is good; well, no one helps, no one under- 
stands me.” 

And the king allowed his thoughtful head to 
fall on his hand. 

At that moment w as heard a loud flourish of 
trumpets, and acclamations resounding through 
the streets, made heir way even to the ears of the 
absorbed king. The page ceased to meddle with 
his falcon, and questioned the doctor by a look. 

“Go and see what it is,” said the doctor. “Sire,” 
added he, turning towards the king, “ do you hear 
those flourishes?” 

“ I speak to Heaven of peace and philosophy,” 
said the king; “ they reply war and violence.” 

“ Sire,” said the page, running up, “ it is Messire 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON, 


81 



Bertrand Duguesclin who has returned from 
Avignon and is entering the town.” 

“ Let him be welcome then,” said the king to 
himself, “ though he comes with more noise than I 
would wish. 5 ' 

And he rose with rapidity to go and meet him; 
but before he had reached the end of the alley, a 
great crowd of people appeared under the archway 
arid streamed through the garden gate: they were 
the populace, the guards d!hd the knights trans- 
ported with joy, and surrounding a man of average 
height, with a large head, broad *houlders, and 
legs curved outwards by the constant habit of the 
saddle. 

This man was Messire Bertrand Duguesclin, 
who, with his vulgar but mild countenance and 
intelligent eye, smiled and thanked people, guards, 
and knights, while they heaped their blessings 
upon him. 


At that moment the king appeared at the end of 
the alley; all bowed, and Bertrand Duguesclin 
quickly descended the steps to do homage to his 
king. 

“They kneel to me,” muttered Charles, “but 
they smile on Duguesclin: I am respected, but he 
is loved. It is because he is the image of that 
false glory so powerful over all vulgar minds, and 
that I am the representative of peace; that is, in 
their short-sighted eyes of shame and submission. 
These people belong to their age — it is I who am 
not of mine; and more easily might I lay them in 
the tomb, than impose on them a change which is 
neither in their tastes nor in their habits. Yet, if 
God give me strength, I w ill persevere.” 

Then fixing Ids calm and benevolent look on the 
warrior who was before him, with one knee on the 
ground — 

“ Welcome,” said he, aloud, extending his hand 


5 


82 


TTIE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


with a grace vhich went out from his person, like 
& natural perfume. 

Duguesclin aj plied his lips to that august hand. 

“ My good sovereign,” said the knight, rising 
up, “ here I am. I have made good speed, as you 
see, and I am the bearer of news.” 

“ Good?” asked the king. 

“Yes. sire, very good. I have raised thm 
thousand lances.” 

The people shouted with joy at hearing that this 
reinforcement was arriving under the conduct of 
so brave a general. 

“ That is well,” replied Charles, not wishing to 
thwart the delight which Duguesclin’s words had 
excited in the admiring assembly. 

Then, in a lower tone: 

“Alas! we needed not to raise three thousand 
lances, messire, but rather to dismiss six thousand. 
We shall always have soldiers enough when we 
know how to use them.” 

And taking the arm of the good knight, quite 
marvelling at the honour, he mounted the steps, 
went through that crowd of people, courtiers, 
guards, knights, and women, who seeing the good 
understanding wdiich prevailed between the king, 
and the general on whom all rested their hopes, 
cried “Noel’* loud enough to make the roof 
shake. 

Charles V. saluted everybody with smiles and a 
wave of the hand, and conducted the Breton 
knight into a great gallery intended to serve as a 
hall of audience, and which was contiguous to his 
own apartment. The shouts of the crowd followed 
them -there, and were still heard when the king 
had shut the door behind him. 

“Sire,” said Bertrand, quite delighted, “ w r ith 
the aid of heaven, and the love of those worthy 
people, you would recover all your heritage, and I 
am certain that in two vears of a properly con- 
ducted war ” 

“ But to make war, Bertrand, money is needed, 
much money, and we have none left.” 

“ Pshaw, sire,” said Bertrand, “ with a little tax 
on the country lands ” 

“There is no more country, my friend; the 
English have ravaged everywhere, and our good 
allies, the great companies, have succeeded in de- 
vouring what the English had spared.” 

“ Sire, levy a tax of one franc a-head on each 
member of the clergy, and take a tithe of their 
goods; it is long enough since Churchmen have 
levied that tithe on us and ours.” 

“It is on that very matter that I sent you to our 
holy father, Pope Urbain V.,” said the king ; 
“ does he grant us the authority to levy that 
tithe ? ’ 

“Oh! quite otherwise,” replied Bertran€, “for 
he complains of the poverty of the clergy, and asks 
for money.” 

“ You see well, my friend,” said the king, with 
a sad smile, “that nothing is to be done in that 
quarter.” 

“ Yes, sire; but he grants you a great favour.” 

“ Every favour which costs dear, Bertrand, is 
no longer a favour for a king with empty coffers.” 

“ Sire, he grants it free of expense.” 

“ Then, say quickly, Bertrand, what is the 
favour in question?’’ 

“ Sire, the great companies are at present the 
scourge of France, are they not?” 

“ Yes, certainly ; has the Pope found a means 
to get rid of them?” 

“ No sire, that is beyond his power; but he has 
excommunicated them.” 

“Ah! that will make an end of us!*’ cried the 


king in despair, while Bertrand, who had an- 
nounced the news with an air of triumph, knew 
not what to make of it; “from thieves they will 
become murderers, from wolves, tigers; perhaps 
there were some among the number who still feared 
God, and those held the others in check. At pre- 
sent they will have nothing further to fear, and 
they will spare nothing. We are lost, my poor 
Bertrand.” 

The worthy knight knew the profound wisdom 
and subtle intellect of the king. Having that 
quality which in a man of second-rate intellect is 
so valuable- deference for the judgment of one 
superior to himself, he began to reflect, and his 
good natural sense showed him that the king had 
conjectured rightly. 

“ It is true,” said he, “ they will have a hearty 
laugh, when they learn that our holy father, the 
Pope, has treated them like Christians; and they 
will treat us all the more like Jews and Maho- 
metans.” 

“ You see now, my dear Bertrand,” said the 
king, “ the unhappy position in which we now are.” 

“ In truth,” said the knight, “ I had not thought 
of that; and I believed that I was bringing you 
good news. Do you wish me to return to the 
Pope and tell him not to hurry himself?” 

“Thank you, Bertrand,” said the king. 

“ Excuse me, sire,” said Bertrand; “ I am a bad 
ambassador, I must confess. My business is to 
mount on horseback and charge, whenever you say 
‘mount on horseback, Duguesclin, and charge.’ But 
in all such questions as are disputed with strokes 
of the pen, instead of being disputed with strokes 
of the sword, I must allow, I am but a bad poli- 
tician.” ^ 

“ And yet,” said the king, “ if, my dear Ber- 
trand, you were willing to help me, nothing would 
be yet lost,.” 

“ How if I were willing to help you, sire!” ex- 
claimed Duguesclin; “but certainly I am willing! 
Arm, sword, and body, I am entirely at your dis- 
posal. ’ 

“ It is because you will not be able to understand 
me,” said the king with a sigh. 

“ Ah! that sire, is very possible,” answered the 
knight, “ for my head’s rather thick, which by- 
the-bye, is rather lucky for me in other respects, 
as it has had so many hard blows to bear, that it 
would have been very much damaged had nature 
made it otherwise.’* 

“ I was wrong in saying that you could not com- 
prehend me, my dear Bertrand; I ought to have 
said that you would not.” 

“ That I would not!’’ replied Bertrand, quite 
astonished. “ And how should I do otherwise than 
wish what my king wills?” 

“ Eh! my dear Bertrand, because we only wish 
in general those things which pertain to our 
nature, our inclinations, and our habits; and what 
I am about to ask you will seem, in the first in- 
stance, singular and even strange.” 

“ Say on, sire,” resumed Duguesclin. 

“ Bertrand,” resumed the king, “you know our 
history, do you not?” 

“ Not much, sire,” answered Duguesclin; “ that 
of Brittany a little, because ’tis my native country.” 

“ But at least you have heard speak of all 
those great defeats which, on many occasions, 
have placed the kingdom of France or. the brink 
of ruin?” 

“ Oh! as to that, yes, sire. Your highness 
doubtless speaks of the battle of Courtray for 

• The battle of Courtray was fought the 1 1 tb July, i302. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OE MAULEON. 


83 


instance, where the Count d’ Artois was killed; of 
the battle of Cressy, where the king, Philippe de 
V r alois, w^as the seventh to leave the field; and 
lastly, of the battle of Poic tiers, where King John 
was made prisoner?” 

“ Well, Bertrand,” asked the king, “ have you 
ever reflected on the causes which produced the 
loss of those battles?” 

“ No, sire: 1 reflect as little as possible; it tires 
me.” 

“ Yes, that I can understand ; but for my 
part I have reflected as to the cause, and I have 
found it.’’ 

“ Indeed!” 

“ Yes, and I will tell it you.” 

“ I listen,’ sire.” 

“ Have you remarked that as soon as the French 
arc in order of battle, instead of keeping behind a 
rampart of pikes, like the Flemings, or of stakes, 
like the English, and taking advantage of an 
opportune moment, they charge pell-mell, without 
caring for the ground, each man having the same 
idea— that of getting the first at the enemy, and 
striking the most decisive blow himself. Thence 
arises an absence of unity, for none obey any will 
but their own, follow any law but their own 
caprice, heed any voice but that which cries 

The force on the side of the Flemings, consisted of 20,000 
men. These were not disciplined troops, but weavers of 
Bruges and Yprds, who, finding the exactions and oppression 
of the French intolerable, flung away the shuttle for the 
pike, or rather the iron-shod stave which formed their 
principal weapon. There were a few noblemen and knights 
who* fought on foot with the rest. 

The French army consisted of 7,500 horsemen, 10,000 
archers, 80,000 foot soldiers, the last being furnished 
by the French communes or municipalities, then as servile 
and spiritless as those of Plunders were independent and 
brave. The French gendarmerie charged headlong on the 
Flemings without reconnoitring the ground; they came 
on one of tnoae low cut canals or rather ditches which 
then as now everywhere intersected Flanders, and rolled 
over man and horse, the pressure of the rear of the column 
pveventing the head from getting clear. The Flemings 
closed on their flanks, and the result was the total defeat 
of the French, w ith the loss of about 6,000 men, principally 
men-at-arms. 

The battle of Cressy is so well known in the military annals 
of England, that it would be most superfluous to refer to it 
oth rwisn than most briefly. It occurred 26th August, 1346. 
The English army was on that occasion somewhat more than 
2 ,0u0 men, of wnom not more than two-thirds were brought 
i to action. The French numbered upwards of 80,000 men. 
Yet we find them totally routed, leaving 11 princes, 80 
bannerets, 1,200 knights, and 30,000 soldiers on the field of 
battle. 

The battle of Poictiers is undoubtedly one of the most ex- 
traordinary that occurs in the history of any nation. The 
English army und« r Edward, the Black Prince, numbered 
but 2,u00 men-at-arms, 4,000 archers, and 2,000 light armed 
foot soidiers; the French were 50,000 strong, and mostly 
men-at-arms. At the view of this fearful disparity of 
numbers, Edward consented to treat for a free passage, and 
consented to render up all the strong places he had captured 
in his march from Guienne into Poitou; but this was re- 
fused, unless he would further consent to surrender him- 
self and l'V. of his knights prisoners. The result was 
he determined on resistance. The battle took place the 
19th September, 1866. The first onset of the French ad- 
vanced guard being unsuccessful, two whole divisions of 
their army, commanded, one by the Duke of Orleans, the 
other by the Dauphin Charles, and his brother, the Duke 
of Anjou, galloped off the field without striking a blow. 
The division which remained, headed by John in person, 
was still superior in force to the whole English array. But 
it was wholly discomfited. The king, 13 counts, an arch- 
bishop, 70 barons and bannerets, and 2,oOO men-at-arms 
were made prisoners. 

It is impossible to peruse the history of France at that 
period wPnout being convinced ’hat relatively to their 
m igh bout's, and especially the English, their military cha- 
racter was by no means so hi h as at a la er period of th 'ir 
history. But their character in this, (as in other respects,) 
even in the most brilliant eriods of their annals, has always 
been liable to great fluctuation, according to the flow of 
goo 3 fortune, and the capacity of their commanders. 
—Translator. 


‘ en avant .’ Whence it happens that the Flemings 
and the English, people of steady habits, observant 
of discipline, and obedient to the voice of one 
leader, strike at the right time, and almost always 
defeat us.” 

“’Tis true,” said Duguesclin, “’tis just so that 
matters pass; but how can you prevent the French 
rushing forward, when they see the enemy in 
iront?” 

“’Tis what we must come to, however, my good 
Duguesclin,” said Charles. 

“ It might, perhaps, be possible,” said the knight, 
“were the king to put himself at our head. Per- 
haps his voice would then be listened to.” 

“ You are mistaken, my dear Bertrand,” said 
Charles; “I am known to be of a pacific nature, 
quite differing in that respect from my father 
John, and my brother Philip. If I did not march 
straight on the enemy, it would be ascribed to 
fear; for the kings of France have been accus- 
tomed to march on the enemy wherever he was to 
be found; it is, therefore, acknowledged courage, 
achieved renown, a name without a stain, which 
alone can perform such a miracle! — it is Bertrand 
Duguesclin, if ho think fit!” 

“I, sire!” exclaimed the knight, opening his 
eyes with astonishment at the king. 

“ Yes, you, and you alone; for, God be thanked, 
it is known that you love danger, and if you were 
to avoid encountering it, no one would suppose it 
was from fear.” 

“ Sire, what you have said is well, as far as I 
am concerned; but who could make all your ncbles 
and knights obey me?” 

“ Yourself, Bertrand.” 

“I! sire,” said the knight, shaking his head; 
“ I am a very small person to give orders to all 
your nobility, of whom more than half are m .re 
noble than myself! J 

“Bertrand, if you wished to help me, if you 
wished to serve me, if you wished to understand 
me, I could with a word make you greater than 
any of those people.” 

“ You, sire?” 

“ Yes, I,” replied Charles V. 

“ And what then would you do ?” 

“ I would make you constable of France.” 
Bertrand began to laugh. 

“ Your highness is mocking me,” he said. 

“Not so, Bertrand,” said the king; “I speak 
seriously.” 

“But, sire, the blade stamped with the fleur- 
de-lis, has never yet glittered but in hands akin to 
royalty.” 

“ And that is one of our national misfortunes,” 
said Charles; “for the princes who receive that 
^ord, receive it as an appanage of their rank, and 
not as a reward for their services; holding that 
sword on account of their birth, rather than from 
the grant of their king, they neglect the duties at- 
tached to it; while, on the other hand, you, Du- 
guesclin, every time that you draw it from the 
sheath, you will think of the king who gave it you, 
and of the counsels by which he accompanied the 
gift.” 

“ The fact is, sire, that if ever I obtained such 

an honour but no, it is impossible.” 

“ How, impossible?” 

“ Yes, yes, it could orly do disservice to your 
highness. And I should not be obeyed, because 
my rank was not sufficiently high.” 

“ Only obey me,” replied Charles, assuming an 
expression of resolute will, “ and I will take care 
that you shall be obeyed by others.’ 

Duguesclin shook his head doubtingly 


84 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


“Listen, Duguesclin,” continued Charles; “do 
you think that our being too brave is the only 
reason for our being beaten ?” 

“ I’faith,” an wered Duguesclin, “I hadn’t 
thought of that; but now I think on it, I believe 
my opinion is that of your highness.” 

“ Well, in that case, my good Bertrand, all will 
go well. We must not endeavour to beat the 
English, but only to drive them out. For that 
purpose, no battles, Duguesclin, no more battles; 
combats, encounters, skirmishes, that is all. We 
must destroy our enemies, one by . one, at the 
skirts of forests, at the passage of rivers, or when 
they are loitering in villages; it will take a long 
time, X know ; but it will be surer in the end.” 

“Eh! I know all that is true, but your nobility 
will never consent to make war in that manner.” 

“ By all the saints in heaven ! they must con- 
sent, when there are two men who will the same 
thing, and that those two men are the king, Charles 
V., and the constable, Duguesclin.” 

“ Then the constable Duguesclin must needs 
possess the same power as the king, Charles V.” 

“ You shall have the same, Bertrand; I will 
grant to you the power I possess over life and 
death.” 

“As regards the common people, I understand; 
but as regards the gentry?” 

“ Over the gentry, also.” 

“ Reflect, sire, there are princes in the army.” 

“ Over princes, gentry ; in short, over all. Listen, 
Duguesclin. I have three brothers, the Dukes of 
Anjou, Burgundy, and Berry. Well, I make them 
not your lieutenants, but your soldiers; they shall 
yield the same obedience as do all the other nobles, 
and if one of them fail, you will make him kneel 
on the very spot, you will send for the execu- 
tioner, and you will strike off his head, as that of 
a traitor.” 

Duguesclin looked at the king with surprise. 
He had never before heard that mild and good 
prince speak with so much firmness. The king 
confirmed by his look what he had just spoken. 

“ Well, sire,” said Duguesclin, “ since you place 
such means at my disposal, I will obey' your high- 
ness, and try what I can do.” 

“ Yes, my good Duguesclin,” said the king, 
placing his hands on the knight’s shoulders, “ yes, 
you will try, and you will even succeed; and I, in 
the meantime, will take care of the finances — I 
will get money accumulated in our state coffers. 

I will complete the erection of my castle of the 
Bastile, I will raise up the walls of Paris, or rather 
construct a new enceinte. I will found a library, 
for it is not enough to nourish m.en’s bodies, their 
minds also must be fed. We are barbarians, 
Duguesclin, who only think of cleansing the rust 
from our cuirasses without heeding that of our un- 
derstandings. Those Moors, whom we despise, 
are our masters; they have poets, historians, legis- 
lators, while we are wholly without.” 

“ ’Tis true, sire,” said Duguesclin, “but it seems 
to me that we can do without them.” 

“ Yes, as England does without the sun, because 
she cannot do otherwise;* but it does not follow 
that fog is worth pure air; if God, however, grant 
me life, and you, Duguesclin, good courage, we two 
will give France all it wants; and that we may 
give it all it wants, we must, in the first instance, 
give it peace.” 

* This is a most unhappy simile ; for the very gist of the 
preceding observation is the possibility of France doing 
otherwise in the matter of literature and science, if the 
•ffort were made. 


“ And, above all,” said Duguesclin, “ that we 
should find means to rid it of the great compan 
which only a miracle can enable us to effect.” 

“Well! that miracle God will perform,” said 
the king. “We are both too good Christians, 
and have too good intentions for his help to be 
wanting.” 

At that moment the doctor ventured to open 
the door. 

“Sire,” said he, “your highness forgets the 
two knights.” 

“Ah! that’s true,” said the king; “but you 
see it was because Duguesclin and myself were 
busily engaged in making France the first country 
in the world. Now let them come in.” 

The two knights were immediately introduced. 
The king went forward to meet them. Only one 
had his visor open. The king did not know him. 
The smile with which he greeted him was not, 
however, the less gracious on that account. 

“ You have asked to speak with me, sir knight, 
and it has been added, on business of impor- 
tance.” 

“ ’Tis true, sire,” replied the young man. 
“Welcome, then,” said Charles. 

“ Do not be too ready to bid me welcome, sire,” 
said the knight, “ for it is sad news of which I am 
the bearer.” 

A melancholy smile passed over the king’s lips. 
“Sad news!” he said; “it is long since I have 
received any of a different complexion. But 
we are not of those who confound the messenger 
with his message. Speak on then, sir knight.” 

“ Alas ! sire. ” 

“ From what country do you come?” 

“From Spain.” 

“It is long since we have ceased to expect any- 
thing good from that quarter; you will, therefore, 
not cause us surprise by whatever you may have 
to say.” 

“ Sire, the King of Castile has had the sister of 
our queen put to death.” 

Charles made a gesture of horror. The knight 
went on: 

“ He has had her assassinated, after having 
dishonoured her by calumny.” 

“ Killed! my sister killed!” said the king, grow- 
ing pale; “ it is impossible.” 

The knight who had knelt down, rose up abruptly. 
“Sire,” said he, in a trembling voice, “it ill 
becomes a king thus to insult a good gentleman 
who has suffered much that he might render ser- 
vice to his prince. Since you will not believe me, 
there is the queen’s ring; perhaps you will believe 
that more readily.” 

Charles Y. took the ring, considered it a long 
time, then by degrees his breast began to swell 
and his eyes to fill with tears. 

“ Alas! alas!” he said, “ her ring it certainly is; 
it was I who gave it her. Well, Bertrand, do you 
hear this? This blow too!” he added, turning to 
Duguesclin. 

“ Sire,” said the good knight, “you owe an 
expression of regret to this brave young man for 
the offensive word you addressed to him.” 

“Yes,” said Charles; “yes, but he will pardon 
me, fur I am overwhelmed with grief, and I would 
not believe it at first, and even yet I do not believe 
it.” At that moment the second knight came 
forward and raising his visor, said — 

“ Will you believe me, if I tell you the same 
thing that he has done? Will you believe me, I 
who have learnt the exercises of chivalry near your 
person, I who am a child of the court of France, i 
whom you have loved so well?” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAITLEON. 


85 


“My son, my son Henry!” exclaimed Charles. 
“ Henry of Transtamara! Oh! amidst all my mis- 
fortunes, you come to revisit me — I thank you.” 

“ I came, sire,” replied the prince, “ that I may 
join with you in weeping the cruel death of the 
Queen of Castile. I came to place myself in 
safety under your buckler, for if Don Pedro has 
killed your sister Donna Blanche, he has also 
killed my brother Don Frederick.’ 5 

Bertrand Duguesclin grew flushed with rage, 
and the fire of exterminating wrath glittered in his 
eyes. 

“ A wicked prince,” he exclaimed, “ and were I 
King of France ” 

“ Well, what would you do?” said Charles, turn- 
ing rapidly towards him. 

“ Sire,’ said Henry, still on his knee, “ protect 
me, sire; save me.” 

“ I will make the endeavour,” said Charles V., 
“but how does it happen that you, a Spaniard, 
coming from Spain, you who are so deeply in- 
terested Th all this affair, have allowed yourself to 
remain unknown, while this knight was addressing 
me, and have been silent while he was speak - 
ing?” 

“Because, sire,” replied Henry, “this knight 
whom I recommend to you as one of the most 
noble and honourable whom I know — because I 
say, this knight has performed a great service for 
me, and that it was natural for me to grant him 
the honour he deserved, by allowing him to speak 
the first. He has ransomed me from the hands 
of a leader of a company; he has been a faithful 
companion to me, and further, none could be more 
fit to speak to the King of France, than this 
knight, since he saw himself the Queen of Castile 
expire, and has touched the head of my un- 
fortunate brother. 5 ’ 

At these words, which Henry interrupted with 
sobs and tears, Charles appeared convulsed with 
grief, and Bertrand Duguesclin stamped his foot 
on the ground. 

Henry, through the fingers of the gauntlet with 
which he concealed his eyes, observed attentively 
the effect which his words produced. That effect 
exceeded his hopes. 

“Well,” said the king, inflamed with rage, “ this 
recital shall be repeated to my people, and may 
God punish me, if I do not unloose, in my turn, 
that demon of war, whom I have so long kept 
chained in his cavern. Yes, I may die in the 
cause, I may fall on the corpse of my last servant, 
France may be o wallowed up in the gulf, but my 
sister shall be avenged.’ 

But in proportion as Charles V. became more 
animated, Bertrand became more thoughtful. 

“ A king, like Don Pedro, dishonours the throne 
of Castile,’ said Henry. 

“ Marshal,” said Charles Y. addressing Ber- 
trand, “ it is now that your three thousand lances 
will be found useful.” 

“It was for France that I levied them,” said 
Duguesclin, “ and not to pass the mountains. 
That will give us too much of war at one time. 
What your highness said just now has made me 
reflect: while we are campaigning in Spain, sire, 
the English will re-enter France, and will effect a 
junction with the great companies.” 

“ Then we shall fall under the shock,” said the 
king. “ God no doubt wills it so, and there the 
destinies of the kingdom will find their limit. But 
it will be known why Charles, the king, has 
allowed his fortune to perish. The people will 
perish; but at least they will have died for a 
cause much more weighty and more just than 


what relates to the possession of a piece of ground 
or a quarrel with an ambassador.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Bertrand, “ if you had but money, 
sire. 55 

“ I« have it!” said the king, in an under tone, 
and as if he feared being heard from without the 
apartment. “ But money will not restore life to 
my sister and brother.” 

“ No, sire,” said Duguesclin ; “ but we wflll 
avenge them, and that without stripping France of 
its defenders.” 

“ Explain yourself,” said Charles. 

“ Certainly,” said Bertrand. “ With money, 
we would enrol the captains of some companies. 
They are devils who care little for whom they 
fight, provided only their fighting brings them 
money.” 

“ And I,” said Mauleon, timidly, “ if your high- 
ness would permit me to put in a word.” 

“Listen to him, sire,” said Henry; “maugrehis 
youth, he is as judicious as he is brave and trust- 
worthy. 55 

“ Say on, 55 said Charles. 

“ I think I have understood, sire, that these 
companies are onerous to you.” 

“ They devastate the kingdom, sir knight; they 
ruin my subjects.” 

“Well!” said Mauleon, “perhaps as Messire 
Duguesclin has said, there may be a way to 
deliver you from them.” 

“ Oh! speak, speak,” said the king. 

“ Sire, all these bands are at this moment 
gathered on the banks of the Saone. Hungry 
ravens who no longer findprpy in a country ruined 
by war, they will rush to the first bait which is 
offered them. Let Messire Duguesclin, that flower 
of chivalry, who is known and respected even by 
the least among them, go towards them, put him- 
self at their head, and lead them into Castile, 
where there is so much to burn and plunder, and 
on .the faith of that great captain, you will see 
them raise their banner and leave to the last man 
on this new. crusade.” 

“ But if I go,” said Bertrand, “ is there no dan- 
ger that they may keep me, and make me pay a 
ransom? I am but a poor knight of Brittany?’ 

“Yes,” said Charles; “ but you have kings for 
friends.” 

“ And I,” said Mauleon, “ will humbly offer to 
introduce you to the most formidable of the num- 
ber, to the sire Hugh de Caverley.” 

“Who, then, are you?” asked Bertrand. 

“ Nobody, messire, or, at least, but a small sort 
of person ; but I have fallen into the hands of thot-e 
bandits, and have taught them to respect my word, 
for it was on my word they let me go free; aiid as 
soon as I leave your highness, it will be to bear 
them a thousand livres of Tournay, which I owe 
theip, and of which the Prince Henry has gene- 
rously made me a gift, and to engage myself 
during a year in their-company.” 

“ You among those bandits! ’ said Duguesclin. 

“ Messire,” said Mauleon, “ I have pledged my 
word, and only on that condition would they allow 
me to go out of their hands; besides, when com- 
manded by you, they will no longer be bandits, 
but soldiers.” f 

“ And you think they will leave?” said the king, 
enlivened by hope; “you think they will quit 
France? you think they will consent to abandon 
the kingdom?” 

“ hire,” replied Mauleon, “ 1 am sure of what I 
state, and that will furnish you with 25.000 
soldiers.” 

“ And I will lead them so far,” said Duguesclin, 


86 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


*■ that not one shall return to France; that I swear 
to you, my good king; they want war, well war 
they shall have.” 

“ That is what 1 wished to say,” resumed Mau- 
leon ; “ and Messire Bertrand has completed my 
thought.” 

“But who then are you?” asked the king, look- 
ing at the young man with astonishment. 

“ Sire,” replied Agenor,’’ I am merely a knight 
of Bigorre in the service as I have said, of one of 
the companies.” 

“ Since how long?” asked the king. 

“ Since four days, sire.” 

“ And how did you enter it?” 

“ Tell the circumstances, sir knight,” said Henry; 
•you can only gain by the narration.” 

And Mauleon related to the king, Charles V. 
and the constable, Duguesclin, the history of his 
engagements with Caverley, in such wise as to 
raise the highest admiration in the king, who 
well knew what judgment was, and the marshal, 
who well knew what was chivalry. 

CHAPTER XV. 

HOW THE BASTARD OF MAULEON RETURNED TO 

THE CAPTAIN, HUGH DE CAYERLEY, AND WHAT 

FOLLOWED. 

Charles V. was too wise a prince and had medi- 
tated too frequently on the affairs of his kingdom 
not to see at once all the results which might be 
obtained from the situation, if events were 
arranged in the manner which Mauleon had un- 
dertaken to prepare. The English, deprived of the 
assistance of the great companies,* those scourges 
with which they beat the country, would be ne- 
cessarily forced to pay troops to replace those who 
paid themselves, and made, on their own account, 
a lucrative war, and one ruinous to the kingdom. 
The result, then, would necessarily be, a truce for 
France, a truce during which new institutions 
might restore some repose to the French, and 
which would permit the king to execute the great 
undertakings which he had begun for the em- 
bellishment of Paris and the improvement of the 
finances. • 

As to this Spanish w’ar, Duguesclin did not 
consider it as attended with inconvenience. The 
French chivalry was s perior in force and conduct 
to all other chivalry in the world. The Castilians 
therefore would be beaten; besides Bertrand had 
no intention of sparing the companies, knowing 
that the more dearly he bought the victory, the 
m re advantageous would that victory be to 
France, and that the more carcases he strewed on 

* I subjoin a few extracts from Sismondi on this subject* 

- The two treaties of Brittany and of Navarre hiid only 
augmented the number of the companies. Sometimes they 
endeavoured to penetrate into Anquitaine, but the Prince of 
"Wales repulsed them with so much vigour, that they has- 
tened to return to the central provinces of France, which 
they termed their room (leur charnbre.) These provinces 
had not the same military spirit as those of the north, or as 
P. i tany and Gascony. They had furnished few soldiers to 
the armies, they furr J shcd few to the companies of adven- 
turers, among whom were >een, on the contrary, a great 
number of English, Gassons, Bretons, Normans, Picards, 
a :<l Germans From their composition the French were 
disposed to believe that they were the armies of Edward 
still engaged in an underhand warfare against France, and 
the brigand leaders did all they could to accredit an 
opinion which gave them safety. By turns the historians of 
tue monarchy have represented the adventurers of the com- 
panies as English, when they wished to make a grievance 
against England of their ravages in France, and as French, 
when they wished to derive food for vanity from their vic- 
tories in Spain. — S de Sismondi. Histoire des Franpnis. 

c. x. rot. 174 and p. 181. — Ed. Dumont , 

J&run. 18J7.—Transl.vTo» i 


the plains of Spain, the fewer plunderers he would 
bring back into his country.* 

The policy of that time was entirely selfish, or, 
at least, entirely personal; the idea had not then 
arisen of putting forward those principles .f in- 
ternational right which have since simplified the 
questiors of war among kings. Every prince 
armed on his own behalf and from his own re- 
sources, by persuasion, force and money, and in 
virtue of his arms he possessed a right which 
many were ready to make valid. 

Charles said to himself, “ Don Pedro has killed 
his brother, and murdered my sister, but he would 
have been right to do so, if I do not so arrange 
matters as to let him see he is wrong.’’ 

Don Henry, of Transtamara, said — 

“ I am the elder brother, since I was born in 
1333, and my brother, Don Pedro, in 1336. Al- 
phonso, my father, was betrothed to my mother, 
Leonora de Guzman; therefore, although he did 
not marry her, she was really his lawful wife. 
Chance alone made me a bastard. But as if this 
excellent reason were not enough, heaven sends 
me private injuries and public crimes to avenge. 
Don Pedro wished to dishonour my wife; he is 
the assassin of my brother, Don Frederick ; finally, 
he has killed the King of France’s sister. I am, 
therefore, right in wishing to dethrone Don Pedro 
seeing that if I succeed, I shall, in all probability 
mount the throne in his stead. : 

Don Pedro said to himself — 

“King de facto and born in lawful wedlock. ! 
married in virtue of a treaty, which procured me 
the alliance of France, a young princess of royal 
blood, named Blanche of Bourbon; instead of 
loving me, as was her duty, she loved Don Fre- 
derick, my brother; and as if it were not enough 
for me to have been constrained to a political 
alliance, my wife took part with my brothers, 
Tello and Henry, who were making war against 
me, which is a crime of high treason; further, 
she brought dishonour on my name Avith my 
brother, Don Frederick; I have put Don Fre- 
derick and her to death, and I had the right 
to do so.” 

Only when he cast his eyes around him to see 
whether his right would receive a solid support, he 
could see only Castilians, Moors, and Jews, while 
Don Henry, of T ranstamara, had Avith him A rragon, 
France, and the Pope. It was not an equal match, 
so that Don Pedro, one of the most intelligent 
princes of his epoch, sometimes Avhispered to him • 
self, that though he had began by being in the 
right, he might end by being in the wrong. 

Preparations Avere quickly made at the court of 
France. King Charles lost no farther time than was 
necessary to commit the sword of constable of 
France into the hands of Bertrand Duguesclin, 
and to make a discourse to the princes and nobility, 
in which, after announcing the honour he had con- 
ferred on the Breton gentleman, he invited them to 
obey the new constable, as they Avould himself. 
Then as it was of all things necessary to obtain 
the co-operation of the great companies for the en- 
suing campaign, before any rumour of the inten- 
tion could get abroad, lest Don Pedro should pur- 
chase not the succour of the captains in Spain, but 
their sojourn in France— a sojourn which Avould 
necessarily prevent Charles V. from carrying his 
arms elsewhere, the king dispatched the constable 
and the Chevalier de Mauleon, who was to intro- 
duce him, on their mission. 

Prince Henry, of Transtamara, assured of King 

• Truly a most infernal calculation.— .rakslator. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


87 


Charles’s support, followed them as a simple 
knight. 

The journey was made without noise. The en- 
voys were only escorted by their squires, then 
their servants, and a dozen men-at-arms. 

Soon the Saone was perceived and the innu- 
merable tents of the companies, who, leaving the 
extremities of France which they had devoured, 
had gradually drawn near the centre, as do hunters, 
when driving game before them; and who, like 
another horde of barbarians, expecting a new 
Aetius, had united their ensigns in those fertile 
plains. 

Agenor took the lead, leaving the constable in 
safety in the strong castle of Rochepot, still be- 
longing to King Charles; and without hesitating 
he went forward as soon as that precaution was 
taken, to throw himself into the companies still 
extended nets. 

The leader among whose bands he fell was a 
captain almost as well known as Messire Hugh de 
Caverley, and who was called the Green Knight. 
It was his turn that day to command the advanced 
guard. Agenor was taken before him, and as 
Agenor had no mind to pay two 'ransoms, he ap- 
pealed to Messire Hugh de Caverley, under whose 
tent he was introduced by the Green Knight in 
person. 

The formidable chief of adventurers uttered a 
cry of satisfaction, when he perceived his former 
prisoner, or rather his future associate. 

Before any explanation Agenor made Musaron 
come forward and draw from a leathern bag 
which, thanks to the munificence of Prince Henry 
and King Charles V., was suitably lined, one 
thousand livres of Tournay, which he disposed 
on the table. 

All the time that this was going on, no one 
breathed a word. 

“Ah! that is a fine trait,” said Messire Hugh 
de Caverley, when the last pile of money had 
been reared near the nine others. “I did not 
expect, I must confess, to see you again so soon. 
You are then already used to the idea which 
at first frightened you so much of living among us.’’ 

“ Yes, captain, for a true soldier can live every- 
where, and everywhere live as he pleases. And, 
besides, I have thought that good new r s can never 
come too soon, and I bring you news so extra- 
ordinary that I am sure you are far from expect- 
ing it.” 

“Bah!” said Caverley, who by this beginning 
began to suspect that Mauleon was holding out 
some snare in order to get free from his word; 
“Bah! an extraordinary piece of news,doyousay ?” 

“ Sir captain,” resumed Mauleon,” I spoke of 
you the other day to the King of France, to w hom 
as you know I was deputed by his dying sister, 
and I mentioned to him the graceful courtesy which 
you had shown towards me. 

“ Ah! ah! ’ said Caverley, much flattered, “the 
King of France knows me then,” 

“ Certainly, captain; fur you have ravaged his 
kingdom enough to make him remember you; the 
cries of the monks who have been burnt, the la- 
mentations of the women who have been violated, 
the complaints of the burghers whom you have 
ransacked, have made your name resound tri- 
umphantly in his ears.” 

Caverley shook with pride and pleasure under 
his black armour: there was something sinister* 
in the joy of that iron statue. 

“ Thus,” said he, “the king knows me; thus 

* Demoniacal would be a more appropriate term. — 
TRASoLATGfi. 


Charles Y. knows the name of Captain Hugh de 
Caverley.” 

“ He knows it,” and will not forget it — that I 
can answer for.” 

“ And what did he say concerning me?” 

“ The king said to me: ‘ Sir knight, go and find 
the good Captain Hugh, or rather — ’ added he — < 

The captain appeared to hang on Mauleon’s 
lips, “‘or rather,’ continued the knight, ‘I will 
send him one of the highest of my servants.”’ 

“ One of the highest of his servants?” 

“ Yes.” 

“A nobleman, I hope?” 

“Forsooth!” 

“ Known.” 

“Oh! well known.” 

“The King of France does me much honour,” 
said Caverley, resuming his bantering tone. “ But 
he wants something then from me, this good King 
Charles, the fifth of the name.” 

“ He wishes to enrich you, captain.” 

“ Young man! young man!” exclaimed the ad- 
venturer, with a sudden distance of manner, “ do 
not jest with me, for it is a joke which has cost 
dear to all those who have attempted it. The 
King of France may be pleased to wish for some- 
thing of mine — my head, for instance; I don’t 
think he would be displeased to get it. But how- 
ever skilfully he may set about it, sir knight, it 
really gives me great pain to tell you that he 
wont get hold of it, by your means, as yet.” 

“ See what comes from always doing evil,” 
gravely answered Mauleon, whose noble counte- 
nance almost made the bandit feel respect; “ one 
becomes distrustful of everybody, one accuses all 
the world, and one even goes so far as to calum- 
niate a king who has earned the title of the most 
honest man in his kingdom. I begin to think, 
captain,” he added, shaking his head, “that the 
king did wrong in deputing me to you: it is an 
honour which princes exchange-. .-with each other, 
and at this moment you speak not like a prince, 
but like a bandit chieftain.” 

“Ah!” said Caverley, somewhat disconcerted 
by the audacity of this remark, “ to be mistrustful, 
my dear friend, is to be wise. And to speak 
frankly, how can the king wish well to me, after 
the cries of those burnt monks, the lamentations 
of those violated women, and the complaints of 
those plundered citizens of whom you just now 
so eloquently discoursed?” 

“Very well,” said Mauleon, “and I see what 
remains for me to do.” 

‘And what remains for you to do, let us see?” 
asked Captain Hugh de Caverley. 

“ What remains to be done, is for me to send 
word to the royal ambassador that his mission is 
at an end, as a chief of adventurers mistrusts the 
word of King Charles V.” 

And Mauleon went towards the outlet of the 
tent to put nils threat in execution. 

“ Ho! ho!” said Caverley, “ I did not say a word 
of what you think, neither did 1 think a word of 
what you say. Besides, there will always be time 
enough to send away that knight; on the contrary, 
my dear friend, make him come here and he shall 
be welcome.” 

Mauleon shook his head. 

“ The King of France mistrusts you, messire,” 
he coldly said; “and he will not allow one of his 
principal servants to enter your camp, unless you 
give him a sufficient guarantee.” 

“ By the Pope’s spleen," howled Caverley, “ you 
insult me, comrade!” 

“Hot so, my dear captain,” resumed Mauleon; 


88 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ for it was you who first set the example ofmistrust.’ 

“ Eh! zounds! is not it well known that a king’s 
envoy is inviolable everywhere, and even among 
us who do violence to many things? This one 
then must be of a particular species?” 

“ Perhaps so,” said Mauleon. 

“ Then, from curiosity, I should like to see him.” 

“ In that case, sign a safe conduct in the proper 
form.” 

“ That’s easily done.” 

“ Yes, but you are not alone here, captain; and 
1 came to you specially, because you are the first 
among all, and because I had had the advantage 
of relations with you, and not with the others.” 

“ Then the message is not for me alone?” asked 
Caverley. 

“ No; it is for all the chiefs of companies.” 

“ It is not me alone, then, that this good King 
Charles wishes to enrich?” said Caverley in a ban- 
tering tone. 

“ King Charles is powerful enough to enrich, 
if it pleased him, all the plunderers in his king- 
dom,” replied Mauleon, with a laugh which in 
irony left far behind it the laugh of Captain 
Caverley. 

It appeared that this was the way to speak to 
the chief of the adventurers, for this sally put his 
bad temper quite to flight. 

“ Let my clerk come here,” he said, “ and let 
him draw me out a safe conduct in the proper 
form.” 

A tall, thin, trembling man, dressed in black, 
came forward; he was the schoolmaster of a 
neighbouring village, whom Captain Hugh de 
Caverley had raised ad interim to the dignity of 
secretary. 

He drew up, under Musaron’s inspection, the 
most precise and regular safe conduct which any 
doctor ever drew with pen on parchment. Then 
the captain having caused each of the illustrious 
bandits, his fellow-comrades, to be summoned by a 
page, began himself by stamping the pummel of 
his dagger below the writing (whether from not 
knowing how to write, or from being unwilling 
from special reasons to take off his gauntlet), and 
then below his monogram caused the other chiefs 
to affix,' "some their cross, others their seal, others 
finally their signature; and while all this was 
going on, these chiefs joked together, thinking 
themselves much superior to all the princes of the 
earth, since they gave safe conduct to the ambas- 
sadors of the King of France. 

When all the seals and signatures had been 
appended to the parchment, Caverley turned 
towards Mauleon. 

“ And the name of the messenger,” he asked. 

“ You will learn it when he comes, and then if 
he deign to tell it you,” said Agenor. 

“ It is some baron,” the Green Knight cried out 
with a laugh, “ whose castle we hav§ burnt and 
whose wife we have carried off, and who comes to 
see whether he cannot succeed in getting back his 
chaste spouse in exchange for his horse or his 
falcons.” 

“ Prepare your best armour,” said Mauleon, 
proudly; “order your pages, if you have such, to 
put on their richest clothes, and preserve silence 
when he whom I announce comes in, unless you 
wish to repent at a later period, the commission of 
a very serious fault for men skilled in the career 
of arms.” 

And Mauleon left the tent with the air of a man 
who. knew the strength of the blow he was about 
to strike. A murmur of doubt and surprise ran 
Uiro gh the group. 


“ He is mad,’ muttered some of the number. 

“ Oh! you don’t know him,” said Caverley. 
“ No, no, he is not mad, and we have something 
new to look for.” 

Half a day passed over. The camp had re-as- 
sumed its usual aspect. Some were bathing in the 
river, others drank under the trees, others rolled 
on the grass. Bands of pillagers were seen re- 
turning heralded by cries of exultation and dis- 
tress ; then appeared women with dishevelled hair, 
and men dragged at horses’ tails and covered with 
bruises. Cattle struggling with their unknown 
masters were dragged bellowing under the tents 
and killed and cut up on the instant for the 
evening’s meal, while the chiefs came to see the 
results of the forage and chose their part of the 
booty, not without serious contention between the 
drunken or hungry soldiers. 

Further off new recruits were seen at exercise, 
peasants dragged from their huts and enrolled by 
force, who in three or four years time would forget 
everything, to become, like their new companions, 
men of plunder and blood Armies of lacqueys, 
clouds of hangers-on were playing or preparing 
their masters’ meals. Casks driven in, stolen beds, 
broken furniture, unripped mattresses strewed the 
ground, while enormous dogs, without masters, and 
collected in bodies, prowled among all these groups 
to get food, plundered the plunderers, and made 
the straggling children cry as they passed by them. 

It was at the entrance of this camp which we 
have endeavoured to depict, but of which the 
aspect alone could give an idea, that suddenly 
resounded the clamorous flourishes of four trum- 
pets, preceded by the white banner, with in- 
numerable Jleur-de-lis which were at that epoch, 
still the arms of France. A great movement took 
place forthwith in the camp. The drums beat, 
the sub officers ran to collect stragglers and to 
place guards at the principal posts. Soon, through 
a close hedge of curious and surprised faces, defiled 
a slow and solemn cortege. First came the four 
trumpeters whose flourishes had given the alert to 
the camp, then a herald-at-arms, bearing naked 
and erect the sword o f constable of France, with 
its blade inlaid with Jleurs-de-lis , and golden hilt; 
then (preceding a few paces, twelve men, or 
rather, twelve iron statues), a knight of haughty 
bearing, with his visor down. His powerful black 
horse champed a golden bit, and a long war sword, 
its handle polished by use, glittered by his side. 
Near this knight, but somewhat in the rear, 
came Mauleon. He guided the troops to the 
tent of the chiefs, where the council w r as then 
assembled. 

The silence of astonishment and expectation 
reigned over that camp which an instant before 
resounded with noisy clamours. 

He who appeared to be the chief of the troop, 
alighted, caused the royal banner to be reared up 
amid the sound of trumpets, and entered the tent. 

The chiefs who were seated did not rise at his 
entry, but looked at each other with smiles. 

“This is the King of France’s banner,” said the 
knight, with a mild and penetrating voice, making 
it an obeisance. 

“We recognise it well,” said Messire Hugh de 
Caverley, rising up, to reply to the stranger; “but 
w r e wait till the King of France’s envoy has given 
his name, before we bow to him as he has bowed 
to the arms of his master.** 

“ I,” replied the knight, w ith modesty, raising 
the visor of his helmet, “ am Bertrand Duguesclin, 
constable of France, deputed by the good king, 
Charles Y. to messeigneurs, the chiefs of the great 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON, 


89 




llnSr 1 





tm 



- — 



-1 






companies, to whom may God grant all joy and 
prosperity.” 

He had scarcely finished, when all heads were 
uncovered, the swords of all unsheathed and exult- 
ingly brandished; respect or rather enthusiasm 
was everywhere shown by prolonged cheering, 
and this electric fire spreading with the rapidity 
of a train of gunpowder and inflaming the camp, 
the whole army clashed their pikes and swords 
together, crying with one voice — 

‘* Noel, Noel, hail to ^lie good constable.” 

Duguescliri bowed with his usual humility, and 
saluted in the midst of a thunder of applause. 


CHAPTER XYL 

HOW THE CHIEFS OF THE GREAT COMPANIES 
PROMISED MESSIRE BERTRAND DUGUESCLIN TO 
FOLLOW HIM TO THE END OF THE WORLD, 
IF HIS GOOD PLEASURE WERE TO LEAD THEM 
THERE. 

That first moment of enthusiasm soon yielded to 
I so earnest an attentio that the constable’s words, 
although pronounced with the calmness of strength, 
penetrated the ranks of the crowd, and arrived clear 
and distinct at the extremities of the camp, 
when the meanest soldiers gathered them with 
eagerness. 


90 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


“Seigneurs capitaines,” said Bertrand with | 
that almost obsequious politeness which gained B 
him the hearts of all who came into communica- 
tion with him, “ the King of France sends me to 
you, r.hat I may accomplish with your aid the only 
action which is, perhaps, worthy of such brave 
men-at-arms as you are.” 

The exordium was complimentary, but the 
general character of mind among the captains of 
the great companies, was one of distrust; hence it 
happened that ignorance of the end to which the 
constable was tending cooled the enthusiasm of 
his hearers; he saw that it was necessary to pro- 
ceed, and profiting by the sentiment he had first 
inspired, thus continued : 

“ Each of you possesses glory sufficient not to 
wish for more; but not one is sufficiently wealthy 
to say ‘I think myself rich enough.’ Besides, 
each of you must have arrived at that point at 
which one desires to unite the honour of arms 
with the profit which ought to follow. Where- 
fore, worthy captains, consider what would be an 
expedition directed by you against a rich and 
powerful prince, whose spoils falling into your 
hands, by lawful right of war, would be trophies 
as glorious as they were profitable. For my part, 
I also am an adventurer, like yourselves. I am a 
soldier of fortune, like yourselves. Are you 
not weary, gentlemen, as I am, of the oppression 
which we have exercised together on enemies 
weaker than ourselves? Do you not desire to 
hear, instead of the wailings of women and 
children, which I heard just now in passing 
through your camp, the flourishes of the trumpet 
proclaiming actual battle, and the shouts of an 
enemy, whom you must fight with . before you can 
subdue? Finally, you, brave knights of all na- 
tions, having consequently each the honour of 
your several countries to sustain, would you not 
be happy, besides the glory and riches which I 
promised you, to unite in a cause which does 
honour to humanity? For, after all, what kind 
of life is it that we men-at-arms lead? No 
prince anointed by God gives us authority for 
our rapine and our extortions. The blood which 
we spill must often call vengeance upon us, and 
not only does its voice mount to heaven, but, de- 
spite of ourselves, it moves our hearts, all har- 
dened as they are by the horrors of war; if, after 
a life spent according to our caprice and humour, 
we end by becoming the soldiers of a great king; by 
becomingthe champions of God ; lastly, by becoming 
rich and powerful, shall we not have carried out 
the true destiny of every man who devotes him- 
self to the arduous pursuit of chivalry?” 

This tm.o, a prolonged murmur of approbation 
ran through the ranks of the captains, for the 
voice o / . title hardest breaker of lances, of the 
sternest jouster of the time, had great power over 
them. All had seen Bertrand at work on the 
day cf battle and manv had felt the edge of his 
sword, or the weight of his mace-at-arms ; they, 
therefore, thought it became them to follow the 
opinion of such a soldier. 

“ Gentlemen,” continued Duguesclin, pleased 
with the effect which the first part of his discourse 
had produced, “ this is the plan of which our good 
king, Charles V., has entrusted the execution to 
me. The Moors and Saracens have returned to 
Spain, more cruel and insolent than ever. A 
prince reigns in Castile more insolent and more 
cruel than either Saracens or Moors; a man who 
has killed his brother: a knight installed accord 
ing to the rules of chivalry, and bearing the chain 
and spurs of gold ; who has assassinated his wife, 


the sister of our king, Charles; an audacious cul- 
prit, finally, who seems as if by this crime he 
would brave the efforts of all the chivalry of the 
world; for ere such a crime can remain unpun- 
ished, knighthood must have come to an end.” 

This second period appeared to make but a 
moderate impression on the adventurers. To kill 
one's brother, to assassinate a woman, appeared 
to t iem actions of a somewhat irregular kind, but 
not crimes, in order to avenge which, it was 
necessary to disturb twenty-five thousand honest 
fellows. Duguesclin perceived that his cause had 
lost ground, but he did not become discouraged, 
and resumed his discourse: 

“ Reflect, gentlemen, whether any crusade has 
ever appeared more glorious, or, above all, more 
useful. You know Spain: some of you have 
travelled through it: all have heard speak of it. 
Spain, the country of silver mines: Spain, where 
the Moors and Saracens have buried the treasures 
which they have plundered half the world to 
supply, Spain: where the women are so lovely: 
that for a woman Don Rodrigo lost his kingdom. 
Well! ’tis there that 1 will lead you, gentlemen, 
if you are only willing to follow; for it is there 
I am going with some of my good friends, picked 
from among the best lances of France ; ’tis there that 
I am going to learn whether the king, Don Fedro’s 
knights are so cowardly as their master, and to 
know if the edge of their swords is worth the 
temper of our axes. It is a fine journey to make; 
gentlemen captains, will you be of the party?” 

The constable terminated his discourse by one 
of those frank and decisive gestures which so gene- 
rally carry with them deliberative assemblies. 
Hugh de Caverley, who during the harangue had 
appeared as agitated as if inspired by the very 
demon of battle, went through the circle, asking 
each his opinion, and soon others coining up to 
him delivered also theirs; he then returned to 
Bertrand Duguesclin, who, leaning on his long 
sword and devoured by the eyes of all the 
soldiers quietly conversed with Agenor, and with 
Henry of Transtamara. The heart of this last 
beat violently from the commencement of the 
scene for its result to him, unknown as he was 
to the crowd, was the alternative between a throne 
or obscurity ; that is, between life and death. A 
man of that stamp has his ambition in the place 
of a heart, and every wound it receives is mortal. 

The deliberation scarcely took a few minutes; 
for Hugh de Caverley approaching the constable, 
amid profound silence, said: — 

“ Honoured Seigneur Bertrand Duguesclin, fair 
sire, knight and comrade, you who are at this 
day the mirror of all chivalry, know that on 
account of your valour and your good faiih, we 
hold ourselves ready to serve you. You shall be 
our chief and not our associate, our leader and 
not our equal. In every case and in every en- 
counter we are at your disposal, and we will 
follow you even to the end of the world. Be they 
Moors, be they Saracens, be they Spaniards, only 
say the word and we will march against them. 
Onty, there are among us man\ English knights, 
and those love King Edward III. and his son the 
Prince of Wales; those two princes excepted, 
they are willing to fight against all comers. Does 
that suit you, fair sir?” 

The constable bowed with all the marks of 
profound gratitude, and added a few words to ac- 
knowledge the honour conferred upon him by the 
suffrages of such warriors, and in thus expressing 
himself, Bertrand spoke what he felt. To the 
man of the fourteenth century whose whole life 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


91 


•was that of a soldier, such homage was neces- 
sarily flattering. 

The news of this determination excited through- 
out the camp an enthusiasm impossible to describe. 
In fact, it was a wearisome life for those adven- 
turers, that continual skirmishing against villages, 
that war of hedges and ravines, that famine in the 
midst of opulence, that desolation amidst triumph. 
To live in another country, a country still new to 
them, on an almost virgin soil, under a milder 
heaven, to get a change of wines and women, to 
conquer the rich spoils of Spaniards, Moor£, and 
Saracens, was a. dream which might well follow 
the reality of having for a leader the mirror of 
European" chivalry, as the constable was termed 
by Messire Hugh de Caverley. Therefore Bertrand 
Duguesclin was received with the wildest exulta- 
tion, and passed to the tent which had been pre- 
pared for him in the most lofty and conspicuous 
position in the camp, under an arch formed by the 
lances, which the adventurers, bowing not to the 
banner of Fr^ice, but to the man who bore it, 
crossed over his head. 

“ My lord,’ 5 said Bertrand to Henry de Trans- 
•tamara, when they had returned under their tents, 

" and while Hugh de Caverley and the Green 
Knight were congratulating Agenor on his return, 
and especially on the circumstances which had 
accompanied it: “ my lord, you should be satisfied; 
the hardest part of the task is accomplished. We 
may all be well pleased. These fellows, like flies, 
a ? hirst for blood, will light on the skin of Moors, 
Saracens, and Spaniards, and sting them outra- 
geously; while they are serving their own pur- 
poses, they will also forward yours; while they 
enrich themselves, they will give you a crown. 

I count on the fevers of Andalusia, on mountain 
ambuscades, on the passage of rivers whose rapid 
current carries away horses and their riders, on 
the enervating abuse of wine and love, of drunken- 
ness, and pleasure, to prostrate half these banditti. 
As to the other half, it will fall I hope under the 
blows of the Saracens, Moors, and Spaniards, good 
hammers for such anvils. We shall therefore be 
conquerors in every way. I will instal you on the 
throne of Castile, and I will return to France to 
the great satisfaction of good King Charles, at the 
head of my men-at-arms, whom I shall keep in re- 
serve, whilel sacrifice these illustrious scoundrels. 5 ’ 

“Yes, messire,” replied Henry de Transtamara, 
a^who was plunged in thought, “but do you not 
■i^pprehend some unforeseen resolution of the king, 
Don Pedro? He is a skilful leader, and his mind 
is full of* expedients.” 

“ I do not see so far, my lord,” replied Duguesclin ; 
“the more trouble, the more glory; and further, the 
more Caverleys and Gregn Knights will be left on 
the fair plains of Castile. One thing alone gives 
me concern — it is what relates to our t ntry into 
Spain; for though it may be very well to make 
war on the king, Don Pedro, on his Saracens, and 
on his Moors, it will not do to cany it on against 
the whole of Spain united; five hundred companies 
would not suffice, and it is much more difficult to 
provide for the subsistence of an army in Spain 
than in France. 55 

“ I intend, therefore,” said Henry, “ to go on in 
advance to forewarn the King of Arragon who is 
my friend, and w ho, from love to me and hatred to 
the king, Don Pedro, will grant you a free pas- 
sage through his states, with provisions and 
succours of men and money; so that if by chance 
1 we were discomfitted in Castile we .should have a 
safe retreat to fall back on.” 

“ One may see, my lord,” resumed the constable, 


“ that you have been reared and brought up near 
the good King Charles, who makes all who sur- 
round him sagacious. Your counsel is eminently 
prudent; go, therefore, but take heed that you be 
not taken; the war wc/jld then be at once at an 
end, for if I am not mistaken, w e are fighting to 
make and unmake a kmg, and not on other 
grounds.” 

“Ah! messire,” replied Henry, annoyed by the 
penetration of a man whom he had regarded as a 
mere fighter without any acuteness, “if Don Pedro 
were once dethroned, would you not be happy to 
replace him by some faithful friend of France?” 

“ My lord,” answered Duguesclin, the king, 
Don Pedro, believe me, w’ould be a faithful ally of 
France, if France would only be somew hat a friend 
to Don Pedro. But the discussion does not turn 
on that point, and the question has been resolved 
in your favour. That murderous misbeliever, that 
Christian king, who is a disgrace to Christendom, 
must be punished, and you as well as another 
may serve to work out the justice of God. Where- 
fore, my lord, and since all has been agreed on 
and settled between us, depart quickly, for I am 
eager to be in Spain with the companies before 
Don Pedro has had time to unloose the strings of 
his purse.’ 5 

Henry made no reply. He felt himself humi- 
liated at the bottom of his heart by having tc 
receive protection on the part of a mere knight, 
under pain of failing in his royal enterprise. But 
the crow n which be saw shining in hi;, ambitious 
dreams of the future consoled him for the tempo- 
rary humiliation. 

Therefore, w hile Bertrand was accompanying to 
Paris the chief leaders of companies that he might 
present them to King Charles, while that prince, 
overwhelming them with honours and bounty, put 
them in a disposition to brave death cheerfully in 
his service, Henry, followed by Agenor, who was 
himself followed by his faithful Mu-aron, took the 
road to return to Spain, avoiding, however, that by 
which, they had come, lest they should be recog- 
nized by any who, in spite of the safe conducts 
with which Captain Hugh de Caverley and Mes- 
sire Bertrand Duguesclin had provided them, 
should cause them any annoyance. 

They directed their course to the right, which 
was the shortest road, that they might first gain 
the Bearn, and thence enter Arragon. Conse- 
quently, they skirted the confines of Auvergne, 
followed the banks of the Vezere, and passed the 
Dordogne at Castillon. 

Henry, nearly certain of avoiding recognition 
under the name and appearance of an obscure 
knight, wished to obtain personal assurance of the 
dispositions entertained towards him by the Eng- 
lish, and try if it were possible to procure the 
Prince of Wales’s support to his party. This re- 
sult appeared the less impossible from the eager- 
ness which the captains had shown to follow 
Bertrand Duguesclin an eagerness wdiich evinced 
that the Bla'ck Prince had not as yet taken any 
decision. To have for an auxiliary the son of 
Edward III., the boy who had gained his spurs at 
Cressy, the young man wdio had defeated King 
John at Foictiers, was not only to double the moral 
strength of his cause, but further to bring five or 
six thousand < lances more into Castile, for the 
Prince of W 7 ales had such forces at his command, 
without weakening his garrisons in Guiemie. 

The prince held his camp, or rather his court, 
at Bordeaux. As there was then truce, if not 
peace, with France, the two knights entered tb« 
town without difficult} ; it is true that it was tba 


92 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


evening of a feast day, and that the tumult pre- 
vented any attention being paid them. 

Agenor had at first proposed to the prince, Don 
Henry of Transtamara, to lodge with him at his 
guardian’s, Messire Ernauton de St. Colombe, who 
had a house in the town; but the fear lest his com- 
panion should not keep his secret sufficiently close, 
made the prince refuse the offer. It was even 
agreed that for greater security’s sake, Mauleon 
should pass through Bordeaux without seeing his 
guardian, which he promised, although it went 
much against him to pass so near the worthy pro- 
tector who had acted as a father towards him, 
without giving him a greeting. After, however, 
going through all quarters of the town, after having 
knocked at the door of every inn, and acknow- 
ledged that the crowd of visitors made it impossi- 
ble to procure a lodging in any hostelry, the prince 
was obliged to return to the offer which Agenor 
had made him. They went on, therefore, to the 
residence of Messire Ernauton, situated in one of 
the suburbs of the town, but not until after a 
solemn agreement had been concluded between the 
travellers that the prince’s name should not be 
mentioned, and that he should pass as a simple 
knight, Agenor's friend and brother-in-arms. 

Chance, however, served the travellers well. 
Messire Ernauton de St. Colombe was then tra- 
velling in the neighbourhood of Mauleon, where 
he had a castle and some land. Only two or 
three servants were remaining at Bordeaux, and 
they greeted the young knight as if he had been 
not the old knight’s ward, but his son. 

A confidential servant, who had known Agenor 
from his birth, did the honours of the house to 
the travellers. It had much changed during the 
four years which had elapsed since Agenor’s last 
visit to Bordeaux. Its gardens, which were very 
spacious, and which afforded a retreat impervious 
to the sun’s rays and to the eyes of man, were now 
separated from the dwelling by a large wall, and 
appeared to belong to a separate residence. 

Agenor questioned the old servant on the sub- 
ject, and learnt that those gardens, under whose 
spreading umbrage he had passed his careless 
youth, had been sold by his guardian to the Prince 
of Wales, who had erected within them a splendid 
mansion wherein he lodged all those guests w r hom 
he was unable or unwilling to receive publicly in 
his palace. Courtiers from all countries, mes- 
sengers from all kings, were then, however, flock- 
ing around the victorious son of Edward III. 

The prince made a sign to Agenor to repeat to 
him this explanation, with all its details; for it 
will be remembered, he had come to Bordeaux, 
with the intention of seeing the Black Prince, and 
the hope of making him his fiiend. But as it was 
^tting late, as the day had been a hard one, and 
the travellers were weary, the prince ordered his 
servants to get his bed ready, and went there 
^mediately after supper. Agenor did the same, 
and entered his own, which being on the first 
story, looked into those beautiful gardens, where 
he proposed to delight himself by gathering, like 
the flowers of the past, the happy memories of 
youth. 

Instead of going to bed, he sat down near the 
window, and with all the poetical feeling of twenty, 
his eyes fixed on those fine trees through which 
the moon’s rays scarcely pierced, he began to re- 
mount that river of life, of which the borders are 
always more flowery as they draw nearer to child- 
hood. The heaven was serene, the air was mild 
and calm, the river glittered afar off like the sil- 
very scales of aa xumense serpent; when by a 


caprice of imagination, whether resulting from 
the resemblance of the landscape, whether from 
the return of the same hour or from the perfume 
of the orange trees of Guienne, recalling those of 
Portugal and Andalusia, his thoughts darted on 
wings of flame across the mountains, and alighted 
at the feet of that Sierra d'Estrella, on the borders 
of that little river which throws itself into the 
Tagus, and on the bank of which, allured by the 
sounds of the guzla, he had first spoken of love to 
the beautiful Moresca. 

Suddenly, amid this nocturnal inebriation, a 
light coming from the mysterious palace glittered 
like a star through the foliage ; then, oh ! strange 
occurrence, which the knight at first took for an 
error of his senses, he thought he heard the sounds 
of a guzla. He listened tremblingly to those 
chords which were only a prelude, but soon a pure 
and melodious voice, which, when once heard, one 
was not permitted to forget, sang, in Castilian, this 
old Spanish romance. 

“Upon a steed of generous race, 

A cavalier of Spain, 

While swiftly he pursued the chace, 

Of dogs and falcon lost the trace, 

And sought them both in vain. 

Under an oak of branches vast, 

He sat at close of day, 

Listening to sounds that murmured past, 

Now loud as armour’s clanging brast 
Now soft as amorous lay. 

When on the leafy summit’s height, 

’Neath which he lay reclined, * 

A fair infanta met his sight, 

With syren eyes and tresses bright ' 

Like chains around her twined. 

* Sir knight,’ she said, in dulcet tone, 

‘Oh ! fear not her who sings, 

She, though deserted and alone 

In this strange nest with moss overgrown, 

Springs from a race of kings. 

My mother, dame of lineage high, 

Of Castile wears the crown, 

When closed their life of royalty, 

My ancestors right solemnly 
In marble pomp lay down. 

But here I was condemned to stay, 

’Mid leaves to find my home, 

Till fifteen years had flown away, 

And morning’s sun beholds the day, 

Which leaves me free to roam. 

Wherefore, as to the saints above, 

Ob ! gentle sir, I sue 
On bended knee, if that may move, 

That as your wife, or as your love, 

You bear me hence with you.’ ” 

• 

Agenor listened no further; he bounded as if 
to awake from his dream, and plunged his ea er 
look amid the plantain trees of the garden, as he 
murmured with feverish hope, — 

*“Ai'ssa! Ai'ssa!” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

HOW AGENOR FOUND HER WHOM HE WAS SEEKING, 
AND PRINCE HENRY HIM WHOM HE WAS NOT 
LOOKING FOR. 

Agenor once assured that it was Aissa’s voice 
that he had heard, yielding to a first impulse, as 
was very natural in a young man twenty years of 
age, took his sword, wrapped himself m his man- 
tle, and prepared to enter the garden. But at the 
moment he had put his leg over the window-sill, 
he felt a hand placed on his shoulder, he turned 
round, *twas his squire. 

“ Sir,*’ said this last, “ I have always remarked 
that some of the follies of this world are committed 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


93 


by passing through doors, but that the remainder 
and much the greater part are committed bypass- 
ing through windows.” 

Agenor made a movement to get on. Musaron 
held him fast with a respectful violence. 

“ Let me go,” said the young man. 

“ Master,” said Musaron, “ I only ask you for 
five minutes. In five minutes time, you shall be 
free to commit any folly that comes into your 
head.” 

“Do you know where I am going?” asked 
Mauleon. 

“ I can guess.” 

“ Do you know who is in that garden?” 

“ The Moresca.” 

“ AYssa herself — you have said it. Now, do you 
still hope to detain me?” 

“ That is, according as you are reasonable or 
out of your senses.” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ That the Moresca is not alone. 

“ No ; doubtless she is with her father, who never 
leaves her.” 

“ And her father is always guarded himself by 
a dozen Moors.” 

“ Well, what then?” 

“ What then ? why there they are prowling under 
those trees. You will run against one of them, 
you will kill him. Another will come to the cries 
of the first, you will kill him too. But a third, a 
fourth, a fifth will come up; there will be a con- 
flict a fight, a clashing of swords; you will be 
recognised, taken, and perhaps killed.” 

“ May be! but I shall see her.” 

“ Fie, fie ! a Moorish woman !” 

“ I am resolved to see her a^ain.” 

“ I do not prevent your seeing her again, but see 
her without risk.” 

“ Have you any means?” 

“ I have none, but the prince will procure 
them.” 

“ How, the prince?” 

“ Certainly. Do you think he is less interested 
than you are in Mothril’s presence at Bordeaux, 
or that he will not have as much desire, when he 
knows it, to learn what the father is doing here, 
as you have to look after the daughter?” 

“ You are right,” said Agenor. 

“Ah! see now,” said Musaron, quite gratified. 

“ Well! go and acquaint the prince. I will re- 
main here, that I may not lose that faint light.” 

“ And you will have the patience to wait for us?” 

“ I will listen,” said Agenor. 

The sweet voice continued to resound through 
the night, still accompanied by the vibrations of 
the guzla. It was no longer the garden of Bor- 
deaux which Agenor had under his eyes, it was 
the garden of the Alcazar; no longer the white 
mansion of the Prince of Wales, but the Moorish 
kiosque with its curtain of verdure. Each note of 
the guzla made a deeper impression on his heart, 
which gradually swelled to intoxication. He had 
almost ceased to believe himself alone, when the 
door opened, and he saw Musaron come in followed 
by the prince, wrapped like him in his mantle and 
bearing his sword in his hand. 

A few words made the prince fully acquainted 
with the situation, as Agenor related to him, with 
out reserve, his former relations with the beauti- 
ful Moresca and the furious jealousy of Mothril. 

“You must, therefore,” said the prince, “ en- 
deavour to speak with that woman; we shall learn 
more through her, than through all the spies in 
the world. A woman held in slavery, often holds 
dominion over her desoot.” 


“ Yes, yes,” exclaimed Mauleon, burning with 
impatience to meet Aissa; “and here am I ready 
to obey your highness’s orders.” 

“ You are sure you heard her?” 

“ I heard her as clearly as I hear you, my lord.. 
Her voice came from that quarter; it still vibrates 
in my ear and would guide me amid the darkness 
of hell.” 

“ Very well! but the difficulty is for us to pene- 
trate into that house, without falling into the 
midst of some troop of armed men.” 

“You have said ‘ for us,’ my lord?” 

“ Without doubt; I will accompany you, hold- 
ing myself however of course in the background, 
that I may allow you to converse freely with your 
mistress.” 

“Then, nothing further need be feared, my 
lord. Two champions like you and I, would stand 
against ten Christians or twenty Moors.” 

“Yes, but we should cause an alarm, we should 
slay, and, forced to fly on the morrow, we should 
have sacrificed to a vain bravado the success of an 
important enterprise. Let us therefore be prudent, 
sir knight; see your mistress again, but with all 
necessary precautions. Above all, take care not 
to lose your dagger in the apartment of a jealous 
father or husband. Dropping mine in the chamber 
of Don Guttiere cost me the woman whom I most 
loved.” 

“ Yes. prudence, prudence!” muttered Musaron. 

“ Yes, but with too much prudence we shall 
lose her perhaps,” answered Agenor. 

“ Be at your ease,” said Henry. “ On the faith 
of a prince she shall be my first confiscation on 
the Moors, when I mount on the throne of Castile. 
But in the meantime, let us take care that the 
throne do not escape us.” 

“I wait the orders of your highness,” said 
Mauleon, with difficulty repressing his impa- 
tience. 

“ ’Tis well,” said Henry. “ I see you are a 
well-drilled soldier, and things will only turn out 
better by your obedience to my commands. We 
are captains, and must know how to recognise the 
weak sides of a post. Let us go down to the 
garden, examine the walls, and when we have 
found a spot suitable for escalade, we will clamber 
over.” 

“My lord,” said Musaron, “it is not scaling 
the walls which offers any difficulty, for I have 
seen a ladder in the court. All parts of the wall 
will therefore be equally favourable. But behind 
the wall are Moors with scymitars and forests of 
pikes. My master knows I am brave, but where 
the lives of so illustrious a prince and so illustrious 
a knight are concerned ” 

“ Speak for the prince,” said Agenor 

“This good squire pleases me,” said Henry; 
“ he is prudent, and will make a most useful rear 
guard.” 

Then raising his voice : 

“ Reraj o,’ he continued, addressing his squire, 
who was waiting behind the door, “ are you 
armed?” 

“Yes, mv lord,” replied the attendant ad- 
dressed. 

“ Then follow us.” 

Musaron saw that no objection would be lis- 
tened so. All that he gained was that they \\ent 
out of the door and walked down the staircase, 
instead of leaping from the window. As he always 
did, when a decision was once taken, he went 
gravely to the purpose. There was a ladder in 
the court; he applied it to the wall. The prince 
wished to go OTer first; Agenor followed, then 


94 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


Perajo, and lastly, Musaron, who drew the ladder 
a!ter him to the inner side of the wall. 

“Keep that a o r, : said the pr nee, “ for the 
’ nnn'f <n whioh yon have spoki n has made me 
place every confidence in you.” 

Musaron sat down on the last step of the lad- 
der: Perajo was placed twenty paces further in 
ambuscade in a fig-tree, and Henry and Agenor 
continued to advance under the great shadows 
of the trees which concealed them from any who 
might be in the light. 

Soon they came so close to the house, that in- 
stead of the sounds of the guzla, which had 
ceased, they could now hear the sighs of the 
musician. 

“Prince,” said Agenor, “who could no longer 
master his impatience, “await for me under that 
bower of honeysuckle; before ten minutes have 
elapsed, I shall have spoken to the Moresca, and I 
shall know what her father is doing at Bordeaux, 
If I am attacked, do not compromise your safety, 
but regain the ladder. I will warn you by a 
single cry — 4 to the wall !’ ” 

“ If you are attacked,” said Henry, “ remem- 
ber, sir knight, that no one, perhaps, with the 
exception of my brother, Don Pedro, and my 
master, Messire Duguesclin, can wield his sword 
as I can. I shall then show you, sir knight, that 
my boast is not a vain one.” 

Agenor thanked the prince, who disappeared 
in the shade, where the knight’s eyes vainly 
sought him. As to Agenor, he continued his 
journey towards the house; but there was between 
it and the wood an empty space to traverse, 
lighted by the moon. Agenor hesitated an in- 
stant before thus braving the light. However, he 
was about to risk this passage, when, by a side- 
door of the house which opened with a jar, three 
men came out conversing in a low r tone of voice. 
The one who was about to pass nearest to Agenor 
(who remained ensconced, motionless, and mute, 
under the shadow of a plantain tree), was Moth- 
ril, whom his white burnous* made it easy to 
recognise; the one in the middle w r as a knight 
clad in black armour; lastly, the one who was 
about to pass nearest to Don Henry, was a noble- 
man wearing a rich Castilian costume under a 
mantle of purple. 

“My lord,’ said this last, with a laugh, to the 
black knight, “you must not be offended with 
Mothril for refusing to show you his daughter 
this evening. He has scarcely consented to let 
me see her, although during nearly six weeks we 
have travelled day and night together.” 

The black knight replied; but Agenor did not 
take heed to what he said. What he wished to 
know, and what he now knew, was, that Aissa 
w as alone. She had arisen at the sound of the 
paternal voice, and, as curious as any Christian, 
had leant out of the window to follow with her 
eyes the three mysterious promenaders. 

The knight sprung forth from the clump of 
trees, and in two bounds got below the window, 
which was tw enty feet from the ground. 

“ AYssa,” he said, “ do you recognise me?” 

Though usually self-possessed, the young girl 
drew back, with a little involuntary exclamation. 
But recognising almost immediately him who 
constantly dwelt in her thoughts, she extended 
her arms to him, saying: 

“Is it thou, Agenor?” 

“Yes, ’tis I, my love; but how shall I reach 
you, after haying, by such a miracle, once 

* A Mo fish hooded cloak. 


more lighted on you? Have you not a silken 
ladder?” 

44 No,” said Aissa; 44 but to-morrow I will have 
one. My father will pass the night at the prince’s 
palace. Come to morrow ; but tp-night be on 
your guard, for they are in the neighbourhood.” 

44 Wfyo are hey?” asked Agenor. 

44 My father, the Black Prince, and the king.” 

44 What king?” 

44 The king, Don Pedro.” 

Agenor thought of Henry, who might perhaps 
soon find himself face tu face with his brother. 

44 Until we meet to-morrow,” said he, darting 
under the trees, w here he soon disappeared. 

Agenor was only half in error. The three 
walkers had taken the direction where Henry re- 
mained hidden. The prince first « recognised 
Mothril. 

44 My lord,” he w r as saying, when his voice first 
reached the prince’s ear, 44 your highness is wrong 
in so constantly reveriing to Aissa. The noole 
son of the King of England, the glorious Prince 
of Wales, did not enter this house to see a poor 
African damsel, but to decide with you on the 
destiny of a powerful kingdom.” 

Henry, who had stooped forward, to heai bet- 
ter, now drew backwards. 

“ Tha Prince of Wales!” he muttered, wltn un- 
speakable surprise, looking with curiosity at that 
black armour which had become so famous in 
Europe, through the bloody battles of Cressy and 
Poictiers. 

44 To-morrow r ,” said the prince, 44 1 will receive 
you at the palace, and on that day, before we part, 
all I hope will be arranged, and then the affair 
may be made public. To-day I w r as bound to 
comply with the wishes of my royal host, and not 
awake the curiosity of the courtiers. Farther, 
before I could conclude anything, it was needful 
that I should know accurately the intentions of 
his highness the King Don Pedro of Castile.” 

At these words, the Black Prince courteously 
bow r ed to the w earer of the purple cloak. 

The perspiration rose to Henry’s forehead; but 
his agitation became still greater, when a voice he 
w^ell knew% uttered the following words: 

44 1 am not the King of Castile, my lord, but a 
suppliant forced to seek assistance far from the 
kingdom, for my most bitter enemies are in my 
own family : I had three brothers one aimed at 
my honour, the-others at my life. The one who 
wished to dishonour me, I have slain; Henry and 
Tello remain; Tello has remained in Arragon to 
raise an army against me; Henry is in France 
near the person of King Charles, and flatters him 
with the hope of conquering my kingdom, so that 
France, exhausted by your victories, fnay find in-- 
Castile new strength to contend with you. I 
have therefore thought, my lord, that it would be 
your policy to support the just lights of a legiti- 
mate monarch by continuing in his country, and 
with the resources of men and money which ho 
offers, the war which this hypocritical rupture of 
the peace allows you to wage against France. I 
w r ait your highness’s reply to know whether I 
must despair of my cause.’ 

“Certainly not; your highness must not despair; 
for, as you have said, your cause is a rightful one. 
But almost* viceroy of Guienne, I have been un- 
willing to bear the sole charge of my vice-royalty. 

* I cannot see why the word “ presque” almost is putU 'o 
the mouth of the Black Prince, as he did actually fill 
dignity. But Acq.uitamo was the term by which the pos- 
sessions of Edward III. in the south of France, comprising 
both Guienne and Gascony, was then generally designated - 
Translator. 


95 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


I have asked from my father a council composed 
of wise men, which assistance he has granted. I 
must consult that council, but be assured that if 
the opinion of the majority be mine, and yields to 
the inclination which I have to meet your wishes, 
no more faithful and, I dare to say, no more ener- 
getic ally will ever have fought under your 
banners. To-morrow, sire, when you return to 
the palace, my reply will be more explicit. Until 
then, do not let yourself be seen. Success depends 
above all on secrecy.” 

“ Oh ! be at your ease, no one here knows us.” 

“ And this house is sure,” said the prince, “ and 
even so sure,” he added with a smile, “ as to calm 
the anxiety of the noble Motliril concerning his 
daughter.” 

The Moor muttered a few words which Henry 
did not hear, for already the three promenaders 
had got to some distance; besides, one single 
thought, burning, insane, and almost unconquer- 
able, had got possession of him, since he had 
heard that hated voice. There, two steps from 
him, was his mortal foe, the spectre risen up be- 
tween him and the goal he strove to reach: there, 
at the length of his sword, was the man who 
thirsted for his blood, and for whose blood he was 
thirsting; a single blow Struck by his hand which 
hatred would have guided to the mark, would have 
ended the war and brought all doubt to an end. 
This idea made the prince’s heart throb, and drew' 
his arm towards his enemy. But Henry was not 
one of those men who yield to a first impnlse, 
even though that impulse were one of mortal 
hatred. 

“ No, no,” he said, “ I should kill him, and that 
would be all. And it is not enough that I kill, i 
must also succeed him. The Prince of Wales 
would avenge the assassination of his guest, he 
would put me to an ignominious death, or shut 
me up in a perpetual prison. Yes,” continued 
Henry, after a moment’s pause, “ but I might also 
escape, and then Tello,” he added, smiling at his 
having iorgotten one of his brothers, though that 
brother were his ally, “ Tello whom I should find 
on the throne — all would have to be begun 
again.” 

This consideration stopped Henry’s arm; his 
half-drawn sword returned to its sheath. 

Certainly the spirits of darkness must have 
laughed at their infernal sister Ambition, which, 
for the first time, withdrew the hand of her votary 
from his poniard. 

It was at that moment that, the three prome- 
naders having got beyond hearing, Mothril uttered 
those words which the prince was unable to dis- 
tinguish. 

% At the same instant, Agenor rejoined him; one 
was gloomy, the other beaming with joy; one had 
just forgotten war, intrigues, princes, the world; 
the other rubbed his mailed gauntlets together, 
thinking he already ground his enemies to dust, 
and held by the steps of the throne of Castile. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE BLOODHOUND. 

The secret of Mothril’s journey to Bordeaux was 
now' explained, and Ai'ssa would have nothing 
further to tell the knight on that subject; but there 
remained matters of much more importance to them: 
those thousand loving avowals which always 
seem new to lovers, and which indeed to Agenor 
and Ai'ssa were so much the newer, from never 
having been made at leisure. 


On the other hand, Prince Henry of Transta- 
mara knew his brother’s plans as well as if they 
had been communicated to him, and could foretell 
the reply which the Prince of Vales would make, 
as well as if he had assisted at the council which 
was to assemble on the morrow. Being well con- 
vinced that Don Pedro would obtain the support 
of the English, he had no other course to pursue 
than to leave Bordeaux before the alliance was 
ratified between them : for then, if recognised, he 
would be made a prisoner of war, and Don Pedro, 
to end the quarrel at once, might have recourse 
to those summary means, which schemes of am- 
bition had alone prevented Henry from recurring 
to, against himself. 

When the prince and the knight had conferred 
together, when the first had taken counsel from 
the prudence of the second, as to the course that it 
w r as fit to pursue; that is, when Agenor had advised 
Henry to leave as quickly as possible for Arragen, 
so as to be ready for the first companies which the 
constable would dispatch thither, the prince, in 
his turn, referred to the private affairs of his 
young companion. 

“ And your amours?” he said. 

“ My lord,” replied Agenor, “ I cannot dis- 
semble that I think of them with bitter vexation. 
It was delightful to find at ten paces’ distance, 
that happiness of which I had so long dreamed, and 
which 1 feared I might pursue all my life without 
overtaking, but — •. — ’’ 

“Well,’ said the prince, “what change pis 
taken place, and what prevents you who have 
neither a brother to contend with, nor a throne to 
conquer, from snatching that happiness as you 
pass by?’’ 

“ Are you then not about to leave, prince?” 
asked Agenor. 

“I shall certainly leave,” replied Henry; * fir 
however warm may be the friendship which my 
heart feels for you, dear Agenor, it cannot, as you 
will be the first to understand, weigh in the ba- 
lance against the prospects of a crown, and the 
interests of an entire nation. Were your exis- 
tence at stake, then the case would be very dif- 
ferent; for, to preserve that, I would sacrifice my 
fortunes and my ambition.” 

And the subtle glances of the prince dived into 
the clear and open look of the young Frenchman, 
to seek for gratitude. 

4 ‘ But,” continued Henry “ what I cannot sacri- 
fice my crown for, is what you must permit me 
to call, my friend, your somewhat foolish passion 
for the daughter of the traitor Mothril.’ ’** 

“ I know it well, my lord, and 1 should have 
been a madman, had I even hoped otherwise; 
therefore, poor Ai’ssa, adieu.” 

And from his window he began to look so sadly 
on the pavilion shaded by sycamores, that the 
prince began to smile. 

“ Happy lover,” he muttered, while hr* forehead 
became obscured; “ he lives for a sweet thought 
which perpetually blooms in his heart, and sheds 
perfume over his existence. Alas! I also have 
known that charming torture which makes all 
young and generous sentiments vibrate in the 
depths of the soul.” 

“ You say that I am happy, my lord.” exclaim- 
ed Agenor, “and Ai'ssa expected me to-morrow; 
I was to have seen Ai'ssa to-morrow, and I shall 
not see her; my lord, if the frustration of all the 
hopes of my heart, at the moment they were about 
to be fulfilled, may make one unhappy then I am 
the most unhappy of men.” 

“ You are right, Agenor,” answered the prince; 


96 THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ think therefore only of the present hour: you 
are greedy after no treasures, you pursue no 
crown, you ask only sweet words, require but a 
first kiss; the wealth you claim is a woman, your 
throne the flowery seat which she w r as to share 
with you to-morrow. Oh! do not lose that even- 
ing, Agenor, as it may be the most beautiful pearl 
which youth will leave in your memory.” 

“ But then, my lord,” said Agenor, “ you will 
leave without me?” 

“ This very night. I wish to leave the English 
territory; it is necessary, as you may well under- 
stand, that I should be on neutral ground by to- 
morrow I shall remain three or four days in 
Navarre, at Pampeluna. Come quickly to rejoin 
me there, Agenor, for I cannot wait for you 
longer.” 

“Oh! my prince,” said Agenor, “can I leave 
you when you are menaced by danger? I do not 
think I can consent to that, even for all the 
treasures of love which await me, and which you 
promise.” 

“ No exaggeration, Agenor; no danger threatens 
me on my departure this evening. Descend, 
therefore, the flowery slope. Perajo accompanies 
me, and you know he is a good swordsman; only 
rejoin me quickly.” 

“ But, my lord ” 

“ And further listen. If you love that Moresca 
as much as you say ” 

“ My lord, I dare not tell you how much I love 
her, for I have scarcely seen her, and have barely 
exchanged two words with her.” 

“ Two words are enough, if one has chosen 
them well, in our brave Castilian language. I 
say, then, that if you love this Moresca, you will 
have a double triumph, as you will snatch at once 
a daughter from Mothril, and a soul from hell.” 

These words were at once those of a king and 
of a friend. Agenor understood that Henry de 
Transtamara was already aiming to unite these 
two characters, and, not to fail in his own part, he 
knelt down beltne the prince, to whom all such 
considerations appeared so contemptible, that his 
thoughts had already wandered from them, and 
were boating far beyond the Pyrenees, amid the 
clouds which crowned the summit of the Sierra 
d’Arayena. 

It was then agreed on that the prince should 
take one or two hours’ rest, and should then start 
for the frontier. As for Maulem, now free, and 
finding his golden chain broken for the moment, 
he lived no longer on the earth, but boated in 
heaven. 

The slumber of lovers is, if n 3t deep, at least 
prolonged; for it is full of dreams which become 
linked one to the other, and which so much re- 
semble happiness, that the sleeper has great 
trouble in awaking. 

Therefore, when Agenor opened his ey^& the 
sun was already high on the horizon. He culled 
Musaron immediately, and learnt from him that 
the prince had mounted on horseback at four in 
the morning, and had ridden from Bordeaux with 
the rapidity of one who feels the danger of delay. 

“ Well,” said he, when he had listened to the 
squire’s recital, decked out with ah ;hose commen- 
taries with which he tht ught proper to embellish 
it. “ Well, Musaron, as regards ourselves, we 
shall stay at Bordeaux during this evening, and 
perhaps to-morrow, but during this time it is 
agreed that we shall not go out, and that we 
shall allow no one to see us. We shall be only 
the fresher at the moment of departure, which 
may happen from one instant to the other. As 


to you, my friend, have good care for the horses, 
so that they may be able to overtake the prince, 
even if a double burden be laid upon them, ami 
twice the pace required.” 

“Oh! oh!” said Musaron, who, as is already 
known, was on free terms with the young knight, 
above all when this last was in good humour, “ we 
are no longer concerned with politics, it appears, 
and we pass to something else. If I were aw are 
what we were about to do, I might perhaps be of 
assistance.” 

“ You will learn that at midnight, Musaron; in 
the meantime remain, quiet and concealed, and do 
what I tell you.” 

Musaron, always delighted with himself on 
account of the enormous confidence he had in his 
own resources, groomed his horses, made a double 
meal and waited for midnight, without once putting 
his nose to the window. 

It was not thus with Agenor, who, with his eyes 
fixed near his lowered blinds, did not lose the 
opposite house from sight. 

But, as we have said, Agenor had risen late, 
and as Musaron had imitated his master, having 
watched at night even later than Agenor, neither 
had observed in the garden belonging to the 
mansion opposite a man who, from the dawn of 
day, had, curved towards the earth, questioned 
with anxiety the traces of steps impressed on the 
fresh earth of the garden, and the torn and broken 
branches of the trees w r hich grew so thickly round 
the dwelling of Aissa. 

This man, enveloped in a large mantle, was the 
Moor, Mothril, who, with the sagacity peculiar to 
his race, compared the different imprints, inter- 
preted, followed them as a bloodhound follows a 
track from which nothing, not even momentary 
interruptions, can divert him. 

“ Yes,” said the Moor, with glowing eye and 
dilated nostril, “yes, these are certainly my steps 
in this alley. I can recognise them by the form 
of my slippers. These by the side are those 
of the Prince of Wales; he wore iron boots, 
and his armour made his tread more heavy. 
These lastly are those of the king, Don Pedro. 
They are scarcely imprinted, for his tread is as 
light as that of an antelope. The prints of our 
footsteps always go together; but these - and these 
—1 don’t know them.” 

And Mothril went from the bower of honey- 
suckle to the clump of trees where Mauleon had 
remained so long hidden. 

“ Here, ’ he muttered, “ they are deep, impa- 
tient, and varied. Where did they come from? 
whither did they tend? to the house. Yes, here 
they are, and the} come to the foot of the wall. 
There they are still more deeply hollowed. He 
who waited here must have risen on tiptoe, doubt- 
less, to reach the balcony; Aissa was his object, 
that is now certain. Now was Aissa in under- 
standing with him? That is what we must en- 
deavour to find out.” 

And the Moor, leaning over this imprint, / 
examined it with grave anxiety. 

“ This step is that of a man shod like a Frankish 
horseman. Here is the furrow traced by the spur ; 
let us see where it comes from.” 

And Mothril re-pursued the track which brought 
him back to the honeysuckle bower where his 
investigations commenced. 

“Another,” he muttered, “has stopped there; 
another, for the step is not the same. This one, 
no doubt, came on our account, as the other on 
that of Aissa. We must have passed so close to 
that one as almost to brush him, and he must have 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAXJLEON 


07 



heard us. What were we saying when we passed 
by here?” 

And Mothril endeavoured to recall what his 
two companions and himself had said, as they 
passed by that spot. 

But it was not politics which most pre-occupied 
Mothril; he, therefore, quickly reverted to the 
examination of the foot-prints 

He then discovered the track of feet which went J 
as far as tin garden wall. Three men had come 
down; one had been as far as the fig-tree, in the ! 
branches of which he had hidden, for the lower I 
boughs were broken. He must have been merely 1 
a sentinel. 

The other had come as far as the honeysuckle 
bower; he was, doubtless, a spy. 

The third, lastly, had got as far us the clump of 
trees; had remained there awhile, and from the 
-ump had gained the pavilion of Aissa; this last 
’as cer'^hdy a lover, 

6 


Mothril then returned once more to the foot oi 
the wall separating the house of Ernauton de St. 
Colombe from the mansion sold to the Prir.ce of 
Wales. Everything now became as clear and 
legible as in a book. 

The lower part of the ladder had hollowed two 
holes, and the upper had injured the coping of the 
wall. 

“All comes from that quarter,” said the Moor. 
He then mounted so as to look over the wall, and 
plunged an eager look into Ernauton ’s garden ; but 
it was still early, and we have said that Agenor 
and Musaron had slept late. Mothril, therefore, 
saw nothing; he only remarked on the further 
side of the w all, another series of footsteps leading 
to the house of Ernauton. 

“ 1 will be on my guard,” he said. 

All day the Moor sought for news in the neign- 
bourhood, but Ernauton’s servants were discreet; 
besides, they did not know Henry de Transtan \arfe. 


98 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


and saw Agenor for they first time. They said so 
little, and gave so little light to Mothril’s spy, or 
to Mothril himself, by saying, “ Our guest is the 
godson of the Seigneur Ernauton de St. Colombe,” 
that Mothril resolved to trust only to himself. 

The night came. 

The king, Don Pedro, and his faithful minister 
wei e expected at the palace of the Prince of 
Wales. Mothril at the hour agreed on for the 
visit was in readiness, and, in company with his 
rinee, entered the council like a man whom house- 
old cares cannot distract from his duty. 

As to Mauleon, as he had watched the Moor go 
out, as he knew that Ai'ssa was alone, he took his 
Sword, as he had done on the day preceding, 
ordered his squire to keep the horses saddled in 
readiness in Ernauton’s court-yard, and leaving 
the ladder against the wall in the same spot as 
the day before, he entered, without any accident, 
the Prince of Wales's garden. 

It was a night similar to the beautiful nights of 
the east, similar to the beautiful night which had 
preceded. Nothing troubled the felicity of Agenor’s 
heart, unless the very fullness of his joy; for what 
is termed presentiment is often only the excess of 
happiness which makes one tremble at the fragility 
of that delight which lies within one’s grasp, and 
which may yet be broken by so many shocks. 
Whoever feels no anxiety is not completely happy, 
and rarely has the boldest lover gone to a rendez- 
vous given by his mistress without experiencing 
a shudder of fear. 

As to Ai’ssa, frantic with love like the fairies of 
those burning climates in which she had been 
born,' slm had thought all day of the preceding 
night, which had seemed to her a dream, and of 
the night which she awaited, and which seemed 
the most delicious expression of happiness; kneel- 
ing by the open window, inhaling the evening 
breeze and the perfumes of the flowers, absorbing 
all those sympathetic sensations which revealed 
the presence of her lover, she lived only on the 
thought of that man whom she did not yet hear, 
whom she did not yet see, but whom she divined 
under the mysterious shades and sublime silence 
of the night. 

Suddenly she heard a rustling among the 
leaves, and she leant forward, blushing with 
pleasure, over the flow ers w'hich lined her balcony. 

The noise redoubled, a timid step brushing 
amid the plants, an uncertain and hesitating 
step, warned her that her well-beloved was ap- 
proaching. 

Mauloon appeared in that broad stream of 
silvery light which the moon spread between the 
grove and the mansion. 

Immediately, with the lightness of a swallow, 
the beautiful Moresea, who only waited for his 
appearance, suspended herself by a long silken 
rope fastened to the stone balcony, then allowing 
herself to glide down on the gravel, she fell into 
Agenor’s arms, and clasping his head between her 
slender fingers: 

'‘Here 1 am,” she said, “you see that I ex- 
pected you.” 

And Mauleon, quiteb ewfildered with love, and 
trembling with a delightful fear, felt his lips im- 
priso/ ed by a burning kiss. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

LOVE 

Bur if he could not speak, Mauleon could act 
He rapidly drew Aissa under the bowser of honey- 


suckle which on the preceding eve had sheltered 
Henry de Transtamara, and there, seating the 
beautiful Moresea on a grassy bank, he fell at her 
knees. 

“ I was waiting for you,” said Ai'ssa. 

“ Did I then make you wait?” asked Agenor. 

“Yes,” replied the young girl, “for I have 
waited for you not only since yesterday, but since 
the first day that I saw you.” 

“You love me then,” exclaimed Agenor, at the 
height of bliss. 

“ I love you, and you, do you love me?” 

“ Oh! yes, yes, I love you,” answered the young 
man. 

“ I love you because you are brave,” said Aissa, 
“ and you, why do you love me?” 

“ Because you are beautiful,” said Agenor. 

“’Tis true, my face is all you know of m* 
while, for my part, 1 have had all that vox 
done related to me.” 

“Then you know that I am your rather* 
enemy.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Then you know that not only am I his ^ iem # 
but that there is war till death between us?” 

“ I know it.” 

“And you do not hate me because I Iia-e 
Mothril?” 

“ I love you.” 

“ You are right. I hate that man because he 
dragged Don Frederick, my brother-in-aims, to 
butchery. I hate that man because he has mu> 
dered the unhappy Blanche of Bourbon. Lastly, 
I hate him, because he keeps you rather as 
his mistress than as a daughter. Are you truly 
his daughter, Aissa?” 

“ Listen: I know not. It seems to me, that one 
day, when quite a child, I awakened from a long 
sleep, and that the first face I saw on opening my 
eyes was that man’s. He called me daughter, and 
T called him father. But I do not love him; he 
frightens me.” 

“ Is he then cruel or severe towards you ?” 

“ Quite otherwise; a queen is not served with 
more punctuality than I am. Each of my washes 
is a command. I have only to make a sign, a .id I 
am obeyed. All his thoughts appear to ha’ e me 
for their object, all his future appears to rest upon 
me. I know not what projects he may design to 
employ me in, but I am often frightened at his 
gloomy and jealous tenderness.” 

“ Then you do not love him as a daughter 
should love her father? ” 

“ I fear him, Agenor. Listen : Sometimes he 
enters my chamber at night, alone, like a spectre, 
and I tremble. He approaches the bed on which 
I repose, and his step is so light that it does not 
wake my women sleeping on the mats, amidst 
which he passes, as if his feet touched not the 
earth. But I, however, do not sleep, and through 
my eyelids which blink with fear, I see his dread- 
ful smile. He then comes near and stoops over 
my bed. His breath devours my face, and his 
kiss — that strange kiss — half a father’s, half a 
lover’s, by which he means to protect my slum- 
bers, leaves on my forehead or my lip an imprint 
as painful as that of a hot iron. Such are the 
visions which besiege me — visions full of reality. 
Such are the fears with which I lay down every 
night, and yet something tells me that I do wrong 
to tremble; for, I repeat, whether sleeping or 
awake, I exercise a strange empire over him ; 
often I have seen him shake at my frown, and 
his proud and piercing eye has never been able tc 
sustain the fire of my look. But why, my brav* 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


99 


knight, do you speak to me of Mothril? You do 
not fear him, you who fear nothing ?” 

“ No, doubtless, my fears are only for you.” 

“You fear for me; that can be only because you 
love me well,” said Aissa, with an enchanting smile. 

“ Aissa, I have never loved the women of 
my own country, where, however, the women 
are so beautiful, and I have often been surprised at 
my own indifference, but I now know what was 
the reason. It was that the treasure of my heart 
might belong entirely to you. You ask if I love 
you, Aissa: listen and judge of my love. Were 
you to tell me to leave everything for you, to 
abjure everything for you, well Aissa, my honour 
excepted, I would, make that sacrifice.” 

“ And I,’’ said the young girl, with a divine 
smile, “ I would do still more, for I would sacri- 
fice for you, both my God and my honour.” 

Agenor did not as yet know that glowing poetry 
of Oriental passion,* and only now understood it 
as he looked on the smile of Aissa. 

“ Well,” said he, entwining her with his arms, 
“I will not that you sacrifice your God and your 
honour for me, without my attaching my life to 
yours. In my country, Aissa, the woman whom one 
loves becomes a friend with whom one lives and 
dies, and who, when she has received our plighted 
faith, is sure never to be abandoned in the depth 
of some haram, and made there to serve the 
younger mistresses of him whom she had loved. 
Become a Christian, Aissa, abandon Mothril, and 
you shall be my wife.” 

“ I was about to ask that of you,” said the 
young girl. 

Agenor -arose, and as he rose, he bore up his 
mistress between his nervous arms, and his heart 
beating against hers, his face sweetly caressed by 
her fresh and perfumed hair, he ran, with joy at 
his heart, and rapture on his countenance, to 
the part of the wall where he had rested the 
ladder. 

In fact, the gentle burthen was no weight to 
the young man, who cleared, rapidly as an arrow, 
clumps of trees and the borders of alleys. 

He was already within sight of the wall, which 
he perceived through a row of trees, when sud- 
denly Aissa, more agile than a viper, slid through 
Agenor’s arms, brushing with her body that of 
the young man. 

Mauleon stopped ; the Moresca had shrunk 
down at his feet ; her hands were extended in the 
direction of the wall. 

“ Behold .!” she said. 

And Mauleon, following her finger, perceived 
a white figure crouching behind the lower steps 
of the ladder. 

“ Oh ! oh ! ” said Agenor to himself, “ is it 
Musaron who is afraid on my account, and who is 
watching for us? No, no,” be added, shaking his 
head, “Musaron is too prudent to lay himself 
open to receiving a sword-thrust by mistake.” 

The shade rose up, and a bluish flash escaped 
from its girdle. 

“ Mothril!” exclaimed Aissa. 

Roused by that terrible word, Agenor drew his 
sword. 

* Passionate if you will, but not Oriental. Relidous re- 
verence and filial subordination have always been the cha- 
racteristics of Eastern feeling and society, and more evils 
will be found in those climes attached to their excess than 
to their defect. Throughout the greater part of Asia, and 
:?11 the Mohammedan countries, the duties of justice and 
huma-nity are nrmst frequently neglected, but the sentiment 
of reverence is exhibited everywhere. Honour, in the chi- 
valric sense of the term, never has been an eastern senti- 
ment. —T kansLATOR. 


Without doubt, the Moor had not previously 
perceived the young girl, but as soon as he had 
heard her cry, as soon as her tall and slender 
figure had emerged from the darkness, he uttered 
a terrible shout, and sprung blindly towards 
Agenor. 

But love was still more active than hatred. By 
a movement quick as thought, Aissa lowered the 
visor of the knight’s helmet, and Mothril found 
himself opposite an iron statue entwined by the 
arms of his daughter. 

Mothril stopped. 

“ A’issa,” he murmured, dejectedly, while his 
arms dropped by his side. 

“ Yes, Aissa,” she replied, with a savage energy, 
which doubled Mauleon’s love, and made a chill 
creep through the Moor’s veins; “do you wish to 
kill me? — strike. As to him, you know well, do 
you not? that he does not fear you?” 

And she pointed to Agenor. 

Mothril extended his hand to seize her, but she 
then stepped backward and unmasked Mauleon, 
erect, motionless, and sword in hand. 

And her eye beamed with such violent hatred 
that Mothril raised his sword. 

But it was then he, in his turn, who felt his arm 
held back by that of Aissa. 

“ No,” said she, “ do not strike him before me. 
You are strong, you are armed, you are invulnera- 
ble; pass before him and go away.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mothril, overthrowing the ladder 
with a kick, “ you are strong, you are armed, you 
are invulnerable — we shall see.” 

He then gave a shrill whistle, and a dozen 
Moors appeared, axe and scymitar in hand. 

“ Ah ! dogs of issfidels ! ” exclaimed Agenor ; 
“come on, and we shall see.” 

“Death to the Christian!” cried Mothril; 
“ death ! ” 

“ Fear nothing,” said Aissa. 

And with a calm and firm step she advanced 
between the knight and his adversaries. 

“ Mothril,” she said, “ I wish to see this young 
man depart hence, hear you? I wish to see him 
depart hence safe and sound, without a hair of 
his head being hurt, and if not, woe be unto you.” 

“But you love this wretch, then?” cried 
Mothril. 

“ I love him,” said Aissa. 

“ Another reason, then, why he should die ; 
strike,” said Mothril, raising his poinard. 

“Mothril!” exclaimed the young girl, knitting 
her brow, while fire flashed from her eyes, “ did 
you not understand what I said? or must I repeat 
a second time that I will that this young man 
depart hence at this moment?” 

“Strike!” said Mothril, furiously. 

Agenor made a movement to be on his guard. 

“ W ait,” said she, “ and you will see the tiger 
become a lamb.” 

At these words, she drew from her girdle a keen 
and pointed dagger, and uncovering her beautiful 
bosom, burnished like a Valencia pomegranate, 
she leant the sharpened point against her flesh, 
which yielded to the dangerous pressure. 

The Moor uttered a cry of anguish. 

“ Listen,” said she, “ by the God of Arabs, 
whom I disown; by the God of Christians, who 
sha 1 be hereafter mine, I swear to you, that if 
any hurt befall that young man, I will kill my- 
self.” 

“Aissa!” cried the Moor, “have mercy; you 
will drive me *mad.” 

“Fling away your cangiar, then,” said the 
young girl. 


100 


THE IKON" HAND: OR. THE KNTOHT OF MAULEON. 


The Moor obeyed. 

“ Order your slaves to depart.” 

Mothril gave a sign, and the slaves went to a 
distance. 

A'issa then cast a prolonged glance around her, 
like a queen who wishes to be assured of obe- 
dience. 

Then fixing on the young man a look moist 
with tenderness, and burning with desire, she said 
in a whisper, “ Agenor approach, that I may bid 
you adieu.” 

“ Will you not follow me?” asked the young man. 

“No; for he would rather kill me than let me 
go. I remain, that both may be saved.” 

“ But you will always love me?” asked Mauleon. 

“ Look at that star,” resumed A'issa, pointing 
out to the young man the most brilliant of those 
constellations which illumed the firmament. 

“ Oh ! I see it,” said Agenor. 

“Well,” said A'issa, “that shall be extinct in 
heaven, before love is extinct in my heart. 
Adieu! ” 

And raising the visor of her lover’s helmet, she 
impressed a long kiss on his lips, while the Moor 
gnawed his hands with vexation. 

“ Now leave me,” said A'issa to the knight, “ but 
be prepared for all that may befall you.” 

And placing herself at the foot of the ladder 
which Agenor had reared against the wall, she 
smiled as she looked at the young man, while ex- 
tending her hand towards Mothril like a tamer of 
tigers, who makes the animal expected to devour 
him, crouch at his feet. 

“Adieu!” said Agenor; “for the last time — re- 
member your promise.” 

“Till we meet again!” replied the beautiful 
Moresca; “I will keep it.” 

Agenor sent a last kiss to the young girl, and 
jumped to the other side of the wall. 

A growl from the Moor followed the prey which 
had escaped him. 

“ Now,” said A'issa to Mothril, “ do not allow 
me to perceive that you watch over me too closely ; 
do not allow me to suspect that you treat me as 
a slave, for you know I have the means to free 
myself. Come, my father, it is late, let us return 
to the house.” 

Mothril allowed her to retake, indolent and 
dreaming, the road to the pavilion. He picked 
up his long dagger, and passing his hand over 
bis forehead: “ Child,” he murmured, “ in some 
months’ time, perhaps in some days, you shall 
not thus tame Mothril.” 

At the moment the young girl was putting her 
foot on the threshold of the door, Mothril heard 
steps behind him. 

“ Go in quickly, A'issa,” said he; “here comes 
the king.” The young girl went in and shut the 
door as leisurely as if she had heard nothing. 
Mothril §aw her disappear; the moment after the 
king was by his side. 

“Well,” said the king, “we have conquered, 
friend Mothril; but why did you leave the coun- 
cil at the moment it was about to commence its 
deliberation?” 

“ Because,” answered Mothril, “ I did not think 
a poor Moorish slave was in his place, amidst such 
powerful Christian princes.” 

“You lie, Mothril,” said Don Pedro, “you 
were anxious on account of your daughter, and 
you went in to watch over her.” 

“ On my honour, your highness,” said Mothril, 
smiling at this engrossing thought of the king, 
Don Pedro, “ one would say that you thought 
still more about her than I do.” 


And both went in, but not without Don 1 edro 
casting an inquisitiv look towards the wind- w of 
the pavilion, behind which might be perceived the 
outline of a female figure. 


CHAPTER XX. 

IN WHICH IT WILL BE SEEN THAT MESSIRE BER- 
TRAND DUGUESCLIN WAS A NO LESS GOOD ARITH- 
METICIAN THAN A GREAT GENERAL. 

While Prince Henry of Transtamara and bis 
companion, Agenor, were taking the road towards 
Bordeaux, where the events we have related befell 
them, Dugnesclin, invested with full powers from 
the king, Charles V., had united the principal 
leaders of companies, and explained to them his 
plan of campaign. 

There was more of military art and tactics than 
one thinks for in those men of prey, who like their 
next of kin, rapacious birds, or their brother wolves, 
were subjected to those daily observances ^f vigi- 
lance, industry, and resolution, which give supe- 
riority to men of a common nature, and genius to 
those of r more elevated stamp. 

They therefore understand admirably the gene- 
ral dispositions which the Breton hero submitted 
to them, and which formed that ensemble of opera- 
tions which may always be planned in advance, 
and whence result those special operations v which 
circumstances command. But to all these warlike 
projects, they objected one argument to which 
there was no reply: Money. 

It is right to say that the objection was unani- 
mous, that the argument was advanced with one 
voice. 

“ ’Tis true,” said Duguesclin, “ and I had 
thought well on the subject.” 

The chiefs gave a nod to signify that they were 
obliged to him for his forethought. 

“ But,” added Duguesclin, “ you will have some 
after the first battle.” 

“We must, however, live till then,” put in the 
Green Knight, “ and give some rate of pay to our 
soldiers.” 

“Unless,” said Caverley, “ we continued to live 
on the French peasants. But their cries, for those 
peasant devils are always howling, their cries would 
scorch the ears of our illustrious constable. Be- 
sides, where is the use of becoming an honourable 
captain if one is to plunder as when one was an 
adventurer?” 

“ Excessively right,” said Duguesclin. 

“ I will add,” said Claude 1’Ecorcheur,* another 
ruffian, quite meet co • pany for his brother rob- 
bers, and who passed for being less ferocious than 
Caverley, but a hundred times more of a traitor and 
a plunderer, “ I will add, I sav. that we are now 
the allies of monseigneur, the King of France, as 
we are about to avenge the death of his sister-in- 
law, and that we should be un worth v of that 
honour, an honour inestimable for simple adven- 
turers like ourselves, if we did not cease momen- 
tarily at least, to ruin the people of our royal 
ally.” 

“Judiciously and profoundly observed,” replied 
Duguesclin, “ but propose some means by which 
we may have money.” 

“ It is not our business to have money,” said 
Hugh de Caverley, “ our business is to receive it.” 

“ There is nothing to be said in answer to 

* Literally the flayer. But ecoreher quelqu’un is used 
frequently as a synonym for plundering, while it is not so 
used in English. — T kasslatok. 


TflE IRON HAND: OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON.' 101 


that,” said Duguesclin, “and the doctor would not 
be a better logician than you, Sir Hugh; but let 
us know what you ask for?” 

The chiefs exchanged looks and appeared to 
converse with their eyes, then all no doubt agreed 
to leave to Caverley, the care of their general 
interest, for Caverley resumed: — 

“We will be reasonable, messire constable, on 
the faith of a captain ! ” 

At this promise and invocation Duguesclin felt 
a shudder creep through his whole body. 

“ I attend,” said he; “ speak on.” 

“ Well!” said Caverley, “let King Charles V* 
pay us but one golden crown per man, until we are 
on hostile ground. It is not much, certainly; but 
we take into consideration that we have the 
honour to be his allies, and we will be modest 
from consideration for this worthy prince. We 
have what one may call fifty thousand soldiers.” 

“ Nearly that number,” said Duguesclin. 

“ A little more, or a little less.” 

“ A little less, I think.” 

“ No matter,” said Caverley “ we engage to do 
•with those we have what oth rs would do with 
fifty thousand. It is therefore exactly as if we had 
them.” , 

“That makes then fifty thousand golden 
crowns,” said Duguesclin. 

“Yes, for the soldiers,” resumed Caverley. 

“ Well, then?” asked Duguesclin. 

“ Well, the officers remain.” 

“ Right,” said the constable, “ I forgot the 
officers.” 

“ And what would you allow the officers?” 

“ I think,” said the Green Knight, fearing, no 
doubt, lest Caverley should rate them below their 
value, “ I think that these -brave men who are 
mostly persons of skill and prudence, are well 
worth five golden crowns a-head; remember that 
they have almost all, varlets, squires, and knife- 
bearers, further, three horses each.” 

“ The devil !” said Bertrand, “ here are officers 
better provided than those of the king, mj 
master.” 

“ We stick to that,” said Caverley. 

“ And you say five golden crowns for each man.” 

“ Which is the lowest price that, according to 
my opinion, one can claim from them. I was about 
to ask for six, but as the Green Knight has named a 
sum, I will not dispute it, and will abide by what 
he has said.” 

Bertrand looked at them, and believed himself 
once more among those Jews to whom his master 
had sometime sent him to negotiate small loans. 

“ Cursed rascals,” thought he, while he assumed 
his most gracious smile; “ how I would make you 
ail swing, were I the stronger.” 

Then aloud: 

“ Gentlemen, I have just reflected, as you have 
perceived, on your demand, and the price of five 
golden crowns for each officer does not seem to me 
at all exaggerated ” 

“ Ah, ah!” said the Green Knight, astonished 
at Dugueselin’s facility. 

“ And how many officers have you? ’ asked 
Messire Bertrand. 

“ L have a thousand,” said Caverley. 

He doubled the real number. 

“ I. eight hundred,” said the Green Knight. 

He doubled like his colleague. 

“ 1, a thousand,” said Claude l’Ecorcheur. 

This last tripled the number. 

The others imitated the generous example, and 
the number of officers was cai ried to four thousand. 

“ That makes one officer for eleven soldiers,” 


said Duguesclin, with admiration. “A most mag- 
nificent army truly, and one which must possess 
the most consummate discipline.” 

“Yes,” said Caverley, modestly; “ the fact is, 
that it is well enough led.” 

“ That, makes then twenty thousand crowns,” 
said Bertrand. 

“ Of gold,” said the Green Knight 

“ By God,” said the constable, “ twenty thou- 
sand golden crowns, we were saying; which 
added to the fifty thousand granted make seventy 
thousand.” 

“ The fact is that that is the sum to a carolus,” 
said the Green Knight, who admired the ease 
with which the constable cast up the addition. 

“ But ” remarked Caverley. 

Bertrand did not allow him time to finish hia 
phrase. 

“But,” he said, “I understand: we forget the 
chiefs.” 

Caverley opened his eyes. Not only did Ber- 
trand attend to his objections but he anticipated 
them. 

“ You forget yourselves,” he continued; “noble 
disinterestedness! but I have not forgotten you, 
gentlemen. Let us count then. You chiefs are 
ten in all, are you not?” 

The adventurers counted after Duguesc 7i n. 
They were much inclined to find twenty, but 't 
was notfpracticable. 

“ Ten chiefs,” they repeated. 

Caverley, the Green Knight, and Claud o 
l’Ecorcheur began to look at the ceiling. 

“ Which,” resumed the constable, “ at three 
thousand golden crowns per chief, makes thirty 
thousand golden crowns, does it not?” 

Dazzled and suffocated at these words, lost at 
so much munificence, the chiefs arose, and as 
happy at the enormous sum at which they were 
valued, as at the estimate of their merit, which 
made them a thousand times superior to their 
soldiers, they raised their gigantic swords, flou- 
rished their helmets in the air, and roared, rather 
than cried: 

“ Noel, Noel. Liesse to the worthy constable.” 

“ Ah ! brigands,” murmured he, hypocritically 
lowering his eyes, as if the acclamations of the 
adventurers had reached his heart, “ I will lead 
you, with the help of our lord and of our lady of 
Carmel, to a spot whence not one of you will 
return.” 

Then alqud : 

“ Total, a hundred thousand golden crowns, by 
means of which we shall complete the settlement 
of our accounts.” 

“ Noel, Noel,” repeated the adventurers, at the 
height of enthusiasm. 

“ Now, gentlemen,” said Duguesclin, “ you have 
my knightly word, that the sum shall be paid you 
before commencing the campaign. Only under- 
stand, you cannot have it at once; for I do not 
carry the royal treasure with me.’ 5 

“ Agreed,” said the chiefs, still too much re- 
joiced to be very exacting. 

“ You therefore give credit, gentlemen, to the 
King of France, on the word of his constable; that 
is agreed ; and,” said he, raising his head with 
that lofty air which made the bravest tremble, 
“my word is good; we will depart, therefore, as 
trusty soldiers; and, if at the moment of enter- 
ing Spain, the money has not come, then, gentle- 
men, you will have two securities — firstly, your 
liberty, which I restore you; and, further, a pri- 
soner, who is well worth a hundred thousand 
golden crowns.” 


102 


THE IRON HAND: OR. THE TCNTOHT OP MAULEON. 


“ Who is he?* asked Caverley. 

“Myself, by God!” replied Duguesclin, “poor 
as I am. For even if the women in my country 
had to spin night and day to make a hundred 
thousand crowns for my ransom, I promise you 
that the ransom would be paid.” 

“It is agreed,” replied the adventurers with 
one voice, and they all took the constable’s hand 
in sign of the alliance. 

“ When do we leave?” asked the Green Knight. 

“ Immediately, if it please you, gentlemen.” 

“ Immediately,” repeated Hugh. “ In fact, 
gentlemen, as there is no more shearing here, I 
had just as lief that we were speedily else- 
where.” 

Each ran forthwith to his post, and had his 
banner raised above his tent, the drums beat, and 
an immense movement took place throughout the 
camp; and one might see flowing towards the 
principal tents, those soldiers who had assembled 
at Duguesclin's approach, but who afterwards, 
like the waves of the sea, had roiled back to a 
distance. 

Two hours later, the tents were struck, and the 
beasts of burden bent under their loads; the 
horses neighed, and the lances grouping together 
flashed in the sun’s benms. 

In the mean time, on both banks of the river, 
might be seen flying the long-enslaved peasants, 
who now, somewhat tardily set free, were brin - 
ing back to their tenantless tents their omen and 
their damaged furnit Towards mid-day, the 
army commenced its march, descending the course 
of the uone, and forming two columns, of which 
each followed a bank. One would have said it 
was a migration of barbarians, about to accom- 
plish one of those terrible missions on which the 
Lord had employed them, and following the steps 
of one of those scourges of God, who were called 
Alaric, Genseric, or Attile. 

And yet he, whose steps they followed, was 
the good constable, Bertrand Duguesclin, who, 
pensive behind his banner, his head sunk down 
between his broad shoulders, said to himself as he 
journeyed on, on his vigorous charger — 

“ All goes well, if it last. But the money, when 
can I get it ; and if I do not get it, how will the 
king be able to assemble an army strong enough 
to prevent the return of these brigands, who will 
re-descend from the Pyrenees, more hungry than 
ever.” 

Lost in these gloomy reflections, the good 
knight went on, turning from time to time to 
look on the motley and noisy waves of the multi- 
tude rolling around him, and his brain alone 
worked harder than the fifty thousand brains of 
tf»^ adventurers. 

> nd yet, God knows what they all dreamed, 
ea .h thinking himself as it were master and lord 
ot India; dreams the more exaggerated, since the 
country was as yet unknown to them. 

Suddenly, at the moment the sun was declining 
behind the last orange-coloured cloud of the 
horizon, the chiefs who rode behind the good 
knight, and who began to wonder at his taci- 
turnity, saw him raise his head, shake his shoul- 
ders like a conqueror, and heard him call to his 
varlets : — 

“ Halloo, Jacelard! halloo, Bern iquet! a draught 
of wine, and the best our provision can furnish.” 

Then he muttered in his visor: “By our lady 
of Auray, I think I hold the hundred thousand 
crowns, and that, without in any respect doing 
hurt to King Charles.” 

Then turning towards the chiefs of the adven- 


turers who had not been without anxiety at see- 
ing the constable so serious since mid day : 

“Jarni-dieu, messieurs,” said he in his sono- 
rous voice, “ suppose we take a cup together?” 

This was an appeal which the adventurers took 
care not to leave unanswered, they therefore came 
together, and a fair cask of Chalon wine was 
emptied in the King of France’s honour. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN WHICH A POPE WILL BE SEEN TO PAY THH 
EXPENSES OF AN EXCOM3I UNICATION. 

The army continued its march-. 

All roads lead to Rome, the road to Avignon 
might lead to Spain. The adventurers followed 
then the road of Avignon in confidence. 

It was there that Pope Urban Y. first a Bene- 
dictine, then Abbot of Saint Germain d’Auxerre, 
and Prior of Saint Victor, of Marseille, had been 
elected Pope, on the condition that he would in 
no ways disturb in their terrestrial beatitude, the 
Roman cardinals and princes, a condition which 
he had fully carried out from the time of its elec- 
tion in all its bland rigidity, and through which 
he hoped to obtain a right to die as late as possi- 
ble in odour of sanctity; a wish in which he sue* 

| ceede^ 1 

It will be remembered that the successor of St. 
Peter had been touched by the complaints of the 
King of France as regarded'the great companies, 
and, that he had excommunicated thos: great 
companies, a political master-stroke of which 
King Charles V. in his intelligent forethought 
had pointed out to Duguesclin the unfavourable 
side. Since this interview between the prince 
and constable, the mind of the last had been filled 
with an ardent desire to replace matters on their 
former footing. 

Now the illuminating idea which had struck 
Bertrand on the great road from Chalons to Lyon 
during that bright sunset of which w'e said not a 
word, engrossed as we were ourselves by the ta- 
citurnity of the good constable, was to go with his 
fifty thousand adventurers, more or less, as Ca- 
verley had said, to pay a visit to Pope Urban Y. 

This came the more in season, since in propor- 
tion as the adventurers drew nearer to the States 
of the Pontiff, against whom however harmless the 
excommunication had fallen on them, they had nut 
the less harboured resentment, they felt their war- 
like and ferocious instincts reviving. 

Indeed they had already been too long under 
constraint. 

When they had arrived at two leagues from the 
town, Bertrand ordered a halt, assembled the 
chiefs, and commanded that they should extend the 
front of their array, so that an imposing circle 
should girdle the town, forming an immense arc, 
of wdiich the river would be the chord. 

Then mounting to horse with a dozen French 
knights and men-at-arms, who form* d his suite, he 
presented himself at the gate of Vaucluse, de- 
manding to speak with the Sovereign Pontiff. 

Urban, aware of the approach of this army of 
brigands, as one is aware of an inundation, had 
united his army, composed of two or three thou- 
sand men, and knowing all the value of his chief 
arm, he made ready to apply a decisive blow 7 with 
Saint Peter’s keys on the heads of the adventurers. 

But it must be said, that his leading thought 
was that the brigands dismayed at the excommu- 
nication, came to sue for pardon, and to offer to 
redeem theii sins by some new crusade, trusting to 


THE IRON HAND: OK THE TCN t GHT OF MAULEON. 


103 


their number and their strength to give validity to 
the humility of their submission. 

He saw the constable hurrying on with a haste 
which surprised him. He was at that moment 
dining on his terrace shaded with orange trees 
and rose laurels, in company with his brother, the 
Canon Auglio Grinvald, promoted by him to the 
Bishopric of Avignon, one of the first sees in 
Christendom. 

“Is it yon, Messire Bertrand Duguesclin?” ex- 
claimed the Pope. “ Are you then with this army 
which suddenly comes upon us, without our know- 
ing whence or for what reason?” 

“ Alas! most holy father, alas! I command it,’’ 
said the constable, kneeling down. 

“ Then I breathe,” said the Pope. 

“Oh! oh! and I also,” said Auglio, as he di- 
lated his chest, by a deep and joyful inspiration. 

“ You breathe, most holy father!” said Bertrand. 
A . nd he then for his part heaved a sad and painful 
sigh, as if he had inherited the cares of the Pope. 
“ And why do you breathe?” he continued. 

“ I breathe because I know their intentions.” 

“ [ think not,” said Bertrand. 

“ With a chief like you, constable, with a man 
who respects the church!” 

“Yes, most holy father, yes, I respect the 
church,” said the constable. , 

“ Then you are welcome, my dear son. But 
what does this army want with me, let me know?” 

“ In the first instance,” said Bertrand, eluding 
the question and delaying an explanation as long 
as was in his power; “in the first instance, your 
holiness will learn, I doubt not, with pleasure, 
that a roaring war against the infidels is their 
chief concern.” 

Urban Y. cast a glance at his brother as if to 
say, “ Well, w'as I mistaken?” 

Then, satisfied at this new proof of his in- 
fallibility which he had just given himself, he 
turned toward the constable. 

“Against the infidels, my son?” said he, with 
emotion. 

“Yes. most holy father.” 

“And whom in particular, my son?” 

(i Against the Moors of Spain.” 

“ It is a wholesome thought, constable, and 
worthy of a Christian hero; for, I presume, that 
it owes its origin to ou.” 

“ To me, and to the good king, Charles V., 
most holy father,’ replied Bertrand. 

“You will partake the glory, and God will 
apportion the share of the head which has con- 
ceived, and the arm which has -executed it. Then 
your end ” 

“ Our end, and may God permit us to attain it, 
is to exterminate them, most holy father, and to 
devote the greater portion of their spoils to the 
glorification of the Catholic religion.” 

“ Embrace me, my son,” said Urban V., touched 
to his heart, and filled with admiration for the 
valiant soldier who thus placed himself at the 
church’s service. 

Bertrand drew back from this great honour, 
and was satisfied with kissing the hand of his 
holiness. 

“ But,” resumed the constable, after an instant 
pause, “ you are not unaware, most holy father, 
that tho^e soldiers whom I command, and who 
are going on so heroic a pilgrimage, are the same 
that your holiness thought proper, not long since, 
to excommunicate.” 

“ I was right at the time, my son, and I think 
that you also, at that time, were of my opinion.” 

“ Your holiness is always right,” said Bertrand, 


eluding the apostrophe; but so it is, that they are 
excommunicated, and I ^ill not conceal from you, 
most holy father, that this has a detestable effect 
in regard to people about to fight for the Christian 
religion.” : yj <u < 

“ My son,” said Urban, leisurely emptying his 
glass filled with a golden Monte-Pulidano, which 
he relished above all other wines, even those 
which are grown on the borders of that beautiful 
river whose water's bathed the walls of his capital, 

“ my son, the Church, such as I will it, is, as you 
well know, neither intolerant nor implacable ; 
there is pardon for all sins, «bove all, when the 
sinner sincerely repents; and if you,#ne of the 
pillars of the faith, will be a guarantee for their 
return to orthodoxy ” 

“Oh, certainly, yes, most holy father.” 

“ Then,” said Urban, “ I will revoke the ana- 
thema, and I will. consent to lei only a part of my 
anger weigh upon them; hill of indulgence, as 
you see, my son,” continu'd the Pope, with a 
smile. 

Bertrand bit his lips, as he reflected how 
deeply his holiness continued to plunge into 
error. 

Urban continued, with a voice full of mildness, 
and yet not devoid of that firmness which so w'eil 
becomes one who forgives, but who, at the same 
time, well know r s the gravity of the offence, which 
he is willing to forget. 

“ You understand, my dear son, that these men * 
have amassedimpious riches, and as the Ecclesiastes 
says — ‘ Omne malum in pravo fa nor e.’ ” 

“ I do not understand Hebrew, most holy father,” 
replied Bertrand, with humility. 

“ I, therefore, spoke to you simply in the Latin 
tongue, my son,” replied Urban, with a smile ; 
“but I forgot that warriors are not Benedictines. 
This, then, is the translation of the words I spoke 
to you, and which, as you will see, are marvel- 
lously adapted to the state of affairs — ‘ All evils 
are contained in wealth ill acquired.’ ” 

“How fine!” said Dugueselin, smiling in his 
sleeve at the turn which the proverb was likely to 
play his holiness. 

“ Therefore,” continued Urban, “ I have de- 
cided, and that from regard to you, my son, for 
you only I swear, that these misbelievers — for 
misbelievers, trust me, they are— although they 
repent, that these misbelievers, I say, should be 
subjected to a tithe on their goods, and that by a 
payment of this fiue, they should be freed from 
excommunication. And now, although as you 
see, l act spontaneously, and even without press- 
ing me, laud to them well, my dear son, the favour 
which 1 am conferring, for it is immense.” 

“ It is immense, truly,” replied Bertrand, kneel- 
ing down ; “ and I doubt whether they will acknow- 
ledge it, as much as it deserves.” 

1 “Is it not?” resumed Urban. 4 And now 7 , my 
son, let us see at what sum we can fix the price of 
redemption.” 

And Urban turned round as if to question on 
that delicate and grave affair, his brother, who was 
there luxuriously learning his trade as a future 
.Pope.* 

“ Most holy father,” replied Auglio, throwing 
himself back in his arm chair, and shaking his 
hoad, “ much temporal gold wou A be required to 
compensate the pain of your spiritual thunder- 
bolts.” 

“ No 6 ibt, m> doubt, resumed Urban, “ but 

* An ill-cons: dered joke, as all know that the PoiW' in 
has never run in families in practice any more than in 
ikeory.— T ranslator. 


THE TROV TTANO: OR. TrTH ENTOHT OF MAULEON. 


3«4 


we are element ; and it must be said, all invites us 
to clemency. The heavens are so beautiful in this 
courtrv of Avignon, the arr is so pure when the 
mist-rale is willing to let us forget that it exists in 
the caverns of the Mount Ventoux, that all these 
benefits of the Lord announce mercy and brother- 
hood to men. Yes,” added the Pope, extending a 
golden cup to a young page dressed rn white, who 
immediatedly filled it up “ yes, men are most de- 
cidedly brothers.” 

“ Permit me, most holy father,” said Bertrand, 
“ [ have forgotten to tell your holiness m wflat 
capacity 1 came hither. I came in the capacity of 
an ambassador from the brave fellows of whom we 
are speaking.” 

“ And as such, you ask for our indulgence, do 
you not ?” 

“ In the first instance, yes, most holy father ; 
your indulgence >s always an excellent thing for 
us poor soldiers who may be killed from one mo- 
ment to another.” 

“ Oh! that indulgence, my son, you have. We 
wished to speak of our mercy, or our pardon, if 
you like it better.” 

“We count also on that, most holy father ” 

“ Yes ; but you know on what conditions we c£n 
grant it.” 

“Alas !” resumed Drguesclin, “ inacceptable con- 
ditions, sovereign pontiff- for your holiness forgets 
wiiat ihe army is about to perform in Spain.” 

“ What it is about to perform in Spain ?” 

“ Yes, most holy father, I thought I had told 
you that it was going to fight for the Ctiristiaii 
Church.” 

“ Well?” 

“ Well ! it has the right, when going on so holy 
a mission, not only to every pardon and every 
indulgence from your holiness, but also to your 
aid.” 

“ My aid ! Messire Bertrand,” replied .Urban, 
who began to feel some anxiety ; “ what, my son, 
do you understand by these words?” 

“ I understand, most holy father, that the 
Apostolic See is generous, that it is rich, that the 
propagation of the faith is of service to it, and that 
it may pay for its interests.” 

“ Whai say you, then, Messire Bertrand ?” in- 
terrupted Urban, rising in his arm chair, w r ith iil- 
dissernbled rage. 

“ His holiness has thoroughly understood me, I 
perceive,” answered the constable, rising up and 
brushing his knees. 

“ Not so,” exclaimed the Pope, who on the con- 
trary was resolved not to understand; “not so, 
explain yourself.” 

! “ Most holy father, the distinguished soldiers, a 

httle misbelieving it is true, but very repentant, 
whom you see from here, numerous as the leaves 
of the forests and as the sands of the sea, the com- 
parison is taken from the holy books, I think — the 
distinguished soldiers whom you see from here, I sav, 
under the orders of the Seigneur Hugh de Caverley, 
of the Green Knight, of Claude l’Ecorcheur, of 
the Begue de Vilaines, of Olivier de Mauny, and 
other valorous knights, expect a Subsidy from your 
holiness to en able them to take the field. The 
King of France has promised a hundred thousand 
golden crowns ; he is a very Christian prince, and 
deserves canonization certainly, neither more nor 
less than a Pope. Now your highness being the 
key-stone of Christianity, *may well give for exam- 
ple two hundred thousand crowns.” 

Urban gave another bound in his arm chair. — 
Lat this elasticity in the muscles of the holy father, 
ciuaLiCit) which could only arise from excess 


of nervous excitement, did not disconcert Ber- 
trand, who remained in the same firm but respectful 
attitude. 

“ Messire,” said his holiness, “ I see one becomes 
corrupted in the society of robbers, and certain peo- 
ple whom I will not name, and who have hitherto 
enjoyed the favours of the holy see, would have been 
paid more according to their desserts, had tiiey 
undergone its severities.” 

This terrible sentence, from which the ^ope ex- 
pected a gieat effect, to Urban’s great astonishment 
left the constable undisturbed. 

“ I have,” continued the holy father, “ six thou- 
sand soldiers.” 

Bertrand remarked within himself that Urban V. 
was lying by one half, like Hugh de Caveiley and 
the Green Knight, which, notwithstanding the ur- 
gency of his position, seemed somewhat rash for a 
Pope. 

‘* I have six thousand soldiers in Avignon, and 
thirty thousand inhabitants fit to bear arms.” 

This time Urban only overstated by a third. 

“ Fit to bear arms ; the town is fortified ; and 
there were there neither rampart, ditches, nor 
pikes ; I have the tiara of St. Peter on my brow, 
and alone I would arrest with the invocation of 
God, barbarians less courageous than were the 
soidiers of Attila, whom Pope Leo arrested before 
Rome.” 

“ Most holy father reflect. Spiritual and tem- 
poral arms do not succeed well with the vicars of 
Christ, when employed against the kings of 
France, who are the eldest sons of the church. — 
Witness your predecessor Boniface VIII. who 
received, God help me from excusing such audacity, 
a blow in the face from Colonna, and who died in 
prison after knawing away his knuckles.* You 
see already how far the excommunication has 
served you, since those you have excommuni- 
cated, instead of flying and being dispersed, have 
on the contrary, united to demand forgiveness, 
with arms in their hands. As to temporal arms, 
six thousand soldiers and twenty thousand un- 
skilled citizens are worth little ; in all twenty -six 
thousand men, and that counting every burgher 
as a man, against fifty thousand proved warriors 
fearing neither God nor the devil, and much more 
accustomed to Popes than were the sold ers of 
Attila, who saw a Pope for the first time. It is 
on this last point especially, that I beg your 
holiness to reflect before you present yourself to the 
adveuturers.” 

“ They would dare !” cried Urban, his eye gleam- 
ing with anger. 

“ Holy father, I know not whether they would 
dare, nor what they would dare ; but they are very 
daring fellows.” 

“ The anointed of the Lord ! the wretches ! — and 
Christians?” 

“ Pardon me, most holy father ; they are not 
Christians, they are excommunicate — what can 

* Boniface VIII. was surprised and made prisoner in 
Anagni by Nogaret, a legist, the agent of Philip [V (!e B*d) 
King of France, and by his personal enemies, the chiefs of 
the Colonna family, acting in concert with the former — 
After a week’s captivity, an insurrection of the people of 
the town liberated him. But. being old and infirm, he re- 
ceived such a shock from the indignity he had suffered, 
that he died very shortly after. His successor in the pope- 
dom, Benedict XI , having animadverted on the conduct of 
Philip IV. in this proceeding, was immediately afterward* 
poisoned in a plate of figs, not without suspicion of that 
sovereign’s instrumentality. The hostility between Boni- 
face and Philip arose from the nefarious |>er.secution of ihe 
Templers carried on by the latter, under the uretext oi re- 
ligion hut really with the view of stripping them of men 
wealth, — T ranslator. 


THE TRONT HAND: OR. THE KNTGHT OP MAULEON, 


105 



you expect such people to respect? Ah! were 
they not excommunicate, that would be a different 
matter; they might fear excommunication; but 
now they fear nothing.” 

The stronger the argument, the more the anger 
of .the Pope increased; he rose to his feet, and 
advanced towards Bertrand. 

“ You, who give me this strange advice,” said 
he, “ you roust think yourself very safe here?” 

“ I,” said Bertrand, with a composure which 
would have disconcerted Saint Peter himself, “ I 
am much more in safety here than your holiness’s 
self, for admitting, which I do not suppose, that 
any injury should befall me, I can answer for it 
beforehand, that not one stone would be left 
standing on another, either of the good town of 
Avignon, or of the magnificent palace you have 
built in it, however solid its construction. Oh! 
these rascals are terrible hands at demolition, and 
will make a fortress crumble in as little time as it 


takes a regular army to upset an outwork ; then 
they would not stop there : after passing from the 
town to the castle, they would pass from the 
castle to the garrison, and from the garrison to 
the citizens, and not two bones would bp left toge- 
ther of all your thirty thousand men, which would 
cause many souls to be lost through the fault of 
your holiness; therefore, knowing how prudent 
your holiness is, I find myself more in safety here 
than in my camp.” 

“Well!” cried the Pope furiously and gnawing 
the curb which the constable had placed on him; 
“well! I persist, I will wait.” 

“ In truth, most holy father,” said Bertrand, “ I 
give you my honour as a gentleman that I do not 
recognise your holiness in this refusal; I was con- 
vinced, for my own part, though I see I deceived 
myself, I was convinced that your holiness would 
anticipate the sacrifice which the faith requires 
you to make, and that following the example *ci 


106 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON 


hy th* good king, Charles V., the two hundred 
thousand crowns would be offered by the Holy 
Apostolic See. Believe me, most holy father,” 
added the constable, assuming an air of much 
concern, “ it is very painful for a good Christian 
like myself to see the first prince of the church 
refusing his assistance to a pious enterprise like 
that which we pursue; never will those worthy 
chiefs consent to believe it.” 

And saluting more humbly than ever Urban V. 
who was scupified by the unexpected event which 
he was called on to encounter, the constable left 
the terrace, almost without turning round, des- 
cended the staircase, and finding at the palace gate his 
suite, who were beginning to be somewhat anxious 
on his account, he retook the road to the camp. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

HOW THE POPE’S LEGATE CAME TO THE CAMP OF 

THE ADVENTURERS, AND HOW HE WAS RECEIVED 

THERE. 

Dugijesclin, on his return to the camp, began to 
understand that he would experience great diffi- 
culties (so long ?Js Urban Y. remained in the dis- 
positi m he had found him in), in executing the 
fine pian which he had conceived, and which was 
intended to effect three great objects: to pay the 
adventurers; to defray the expenses of the cam- 
paign, and to assist the king in completing the 
Hotel Saint Paul. 

The chut eh is obstinate. Charles Y. was scrupu- 
lous. It would not do to break with his master, 
under pretence of serving him; nor would it an- 
swer at the commencement of a campaign to lay 
one’s-self open to the assaults of superstition, which, 
from the very first reverses, would not fail to attri- 
bute any mishap to the irreligion of the general 
and to the avenging prayers of the sovereign 
pontiff. 

But Duguesclin was a Breton, that is, he was 
more obstinate in his own person than all the 
Popes, whether past or future. He had besides to 
justify his obstinacy, necessity, that inflexible 
goddess, whom, antiquity has represented with an 
iron wedge in her hand. 

He resolved, therefore, to pursue his design, re- 
maining ready to take counsel from circumstances, 
and to go on or stop short, according as events 
should become developed. 

lie therefore put his men under arms, arranged 
his baggage, ordered his Bretons, who had joined 
two days previously, under the conduct of Olivier 
de Manny and the Begue de Yilaines, to move on 
to Villeneuve; so that from the height of his ter- 
race, which he had not left, the holy father could 
see the great bluish cordon unrolling like an azure 
serpent, on the different parts of whose convolu- 
tions the setting sun cast a reflection more glow- 
ing than gold, and more sinister than the light- 
nings of the papal anathema. 

Urban Y. was almost as good a general as he 
was an excellent monk. He had no need to cal] 
on his captain-general to learn that the serpent 
had only to advance one step more to envelope 
Avignon in its coil. 

“Oh! oh!” said he to his legate, as with an 
anxious eye he followed this manoeuvre, “ it seems 
to me that they are becoming very insolent.” 

And wishing to learn whether the great com- 
panies and the chiefs of those great companies 
were really as exasperated as Duguesclin had 
said, Pope Urban V., without any other design 
than that of learning the state of their minds, dis- 
patched his legate to the general- in-chief. 


The legate had not been present at the con - 
ference between the Pope and Duguesclin. H 1 
was therefore ignorant that Duguesclin had mad t 
any other demand than that of relaxation of th > 
excommunication launched against the great com 
panies, on which account he entertained the con- 
viction that he could m^ke his way with a few in- 
dulgences. and benedictions. 

He left, therefore, mounted on his mule, and 
accompan ed by the pale sacristan who served as 
his acolyte. 

We have said, the legate had been informed of 
nothing. The Pope had judged that imparting 
his fears to an ambassador would diminish the 
confidence it was fit he should entertain, in the 
power of his master. The legate was therefore seen 
advancing between the town and the camp, beam- 
ing with self-satisfaction, and enjoying by antici- 
pation the genuflexions and the signs of the cross 
which were to greet him on his arrival. 

But Duguesclin, like a skilful tactician, had 
placed the English on guard in the camp, men who 
were little zealous for the interests of the Pope 
with whom they had had dissensions for more than 
a hundred years, and whom further he ha»l had 
the precaution of conversing with beforehand, that 
he might mould their opinions in conformity with 
his views. 

“ Keep good watch, comrades,” he had said on his 
return to the camp. “ It may be possible that his 
holiness may send against us some companies of 
his men-at-arms. I have just had a little differ- 
ence with his holiness on the subject of a certain 
piece of civility, which, in my own opinion, he owes 
us as a compensation for the famous excommunlf a- 
tion which he launched against us. 1 say us; for 
from the moment that you became my soldiers, I ha ve 
looked on myself as no less excommunicate, nor 
less devoted to hell than you are. Now his holi- 
ness is incomprehensible, on the honour of a 
constable! His holiness refuses us this civility. ’ 

At this unexpected peroration, the English 
shook their shoulders like mastiffs whose auger is 
excited by their master. 

“Yery good, very good!” said they. “Lot the 
Pope come across us, and he shall see that he has 
to do with true excommunicates!” 

Duguesclin, on hearing this reply, had thought 
them sufficiently instructed, and had passed into 
the encampment of the French. 

“ My friends,” he had said, “it may be possible 
that you will witness the arrival of some envoy 
from thfe Pope. The sovereign pontiff can you 
believe it? —the sovereign pontiff, to whom we 
have given Avignon and its country, refuses me tlie 
assistance which I have asked for our good king, 
Charles Y.; and I must avow, even though it may 
hurt me in your estimation, that we have had 
some dispute together. In this dispute, which 
perhaps I was wrong in exciting, of which your 
conscience will judge, in this dispute the sovereign 
pontiff was inconsiderate enough to say, that if 
spiritual arms did not su nee he would have re- 
course to temporal arms. You see me still quite 
annoyed on the subject!” 

The French, who appear even in the fourteenth 
century to have held the Pope’s soldiers but in 
very light esteem, were satisfied by replying with 
shouts of laughter to Duguesclin’s brief address. 

“Good!” said the constable. “Those Mows 
will hoot him, and hooting is always a disagree- 
able noise. Now for my Bretons! With them 
the task will be more difficult.” 

In fact the Bretons — above all. the Bretons of 
that time, people devout even to asceticism— might 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON 


107 


ivell fear a rupture with the sovereign pontiff. 
Therefore Dugueselin, to prepossess them from 
the first in his favour, entered their quarters with 
a countenance of complete dismay. His soldiers 
adored him not only as their countryman, but also 
as their father ; for there was not one among them 
w r ho did not personally know the constable by 
some services rendered, and many among the 
number had b'-en saved by him, whether from 
captivity, from death, or from want. 

At the sight of that face, which, as we have 
said, expressed the deepest condemnation, the 
children of old Armorica pressed around their 
hero. 

** Oh ! my children,” exclaimed Dugueselin, 
“ you see me in despair. Would you believe that 
not only does the Pope maintain his excommuni- 
cation against the great companies, but that he 
intends it to those who join them in order to 
avenge the death of our good King Charles’s 
sister. So that we, worthy and loyal Christians, 
have become misbelievers, dogs, wolves, w hom all 
are licensed to destroy. The sovereign pontiff is 
mad, on my soul!” 

The Bretons uttered a prolonged murmur. 

“ It must further be said,” continued Bertrand 
Dugueselin, “that he is altogether ill-counselled. 
By whom I do not know. But what I know is, 
that he threatens us wuth his Italian knights; and 
that at this moment he is engaged — in what? 
You would scarcely guess. In loading them 
with indulgences, that they may fight us the 
better ” 

The Bretons growled. 

“ And yet what did I ask of our holy father? 
the right df receiving Catholic communion and 
Christian sepulture. It is truly the least which 
men about to combat the infidel can expect 
Now, my children, that is where w r e are at 
present. I left him thereupon. I know not what 
is your opinion, and I believe myself as good a 
Christian as any; but, I declare, that if our holy 
father. Urban V., intends to act as a temporal 
prince towards us, we must think twice on the 
matter; we cannot allow’ ourselves to be drubbed 
by these Pope’s soldiers!” 

The Bretons bounded at. these words with such 
fury, that it was Dugueselin who was obliged to 
calm them. 

It was just at that moment that the legate, who 
had gone out by the gate of Loulle, and crossed 
the bridge of Benezet, entered the outer lines of 
the camp. 

He wore a beatific smile. 

The English ran to the palisades to see him, 
and folding their arms with insolent phlegm; 

“Oh! oh!” said they, “what does this mule 
want with us?” 

The sacristan grew pale with rage at this 
insult, and yet taking that paternal tone, which is 
familiar to churchmen; 

“ You behold,” he said, “ his holiness’s legate.” 

“Humph!” said the English, “where are the 
money bags? Is you mule strong enough to 
bear them. Show us them, come.” 

“ Money! money!” cried others with one voice. 

The legate, stupified by this reception, which he 
W’as far from expecting, looked at the sacristan 
who was crossing himself from terror. 

And they continued their march through the 
lines of soldiers, who repeated vyithout ceasing; — 
“ Money! money!” 

Not a chief was visible; warned beforehand by 
Dugueselin, each had withdrawn to his tent. 

The two ambassadors traversed the first line, 


which as we have said was English, and pene- 
trated as far as the encampment of the French-, 
who, on perceiving the legate, hurried out to meet 
him. 

The legate thought it was to do him honour, 
and began to plume himself upon it, when, instead 
of the humble salutations which he expected, he 
heard great bursts of laughter, resounding fiom 
all sides. 

“ Good day, Mr. Legate,” exclaimed the sol- 
diery, as full of raillery in the fourteenth century 
as they are in our own day, “ does his holiness 
perchance send you to as as a specimen of his 
cavalry?” 

“ Is it with the jaw s of his ambassador’s steed,” 
said another, “ that the holy father proposes to put 
us to the edge of the sword?” 

And they went on switching the hind quarters 
of the ambassador’s mule, laughing and joking 
with a noise and uproariousness w r hich hurt the 
legate more than the pecuniary demands of the 
English. These, however, had not quite left him, 
as some had followed, shouting with all the 
strength of their lungs, “ Money ! money !” 

The legate cleared the second line as rapidly as 
he could. 

It was then the turn of the Bretons, but these 
jested less than the others. They came to meet 
the legate w’ith flashing eyes and closed fists, 
shouting with their formidable voices, “ Abso- 
lution! absolution!” And that in such fashion, 
that at the end of a quarter of an hour, amidst all 
these various cries, it was impossible for the 
legate to discern anything amid all this frightful 
uproar, similar to that of furious waves, of roar- 
ing thunder, of the whistling wind, and of boats 
thrown back, crashing on the coast. 

The sacristan began to lose his self-possession, 
and to tremble in all his limbs. It was long since 
the perspiration had been running down the legate’s 
forehead, and yet his teeth chattered. 

At last the legate, growing paler and paler, and 
beginning to find the strength of his mule failing, 
as more than one of the jesting Frenchmen had 
jumped on its back, during the road, asked in a 
timid voice, — 

“ The chiefs, gentlemen, the chiefs! will any ot 
■ you have the goodness to lead me to the chiefs?” 

It was only then, that Dugueselin, hearing that 
lamenting voice, thought it proper to interfere. 

He made his way through the crow d with his 
robust shoulders which made men undulate around 
him, as the chest of the buffalo shakes the grass 
of the savannahs, or the reeds of the Pontine 
marshes. 

“Ah! ah!” he said, “is it you, M. le Legat, an 
envoy from our holy father? jctrni-Dieu , what an 
honour for excommunicate persons. Back sol- 
diers! back! Ah! M. le Legat, be sc good as to 
enter my tent. Gentlemen,'” he cried with a voice 
which evinced but little anger, “ pray respect he 
legate, he brings us, no doubt, some satisfac- 
tory reply from his holiness. M. le Le^at, will 
you take my hand that. I may help you to alight 
from your mule? There; are you now safely 
down? That’s it; now come with me.” 

The legate in fact had not waited to be twice 
told, and taking the robust hand which the Breton 
knight hadhe*ld,out to him, he had jumped down, 
and passed through the crowd of soldiers assem- 
bled to see him, amidst shrugs, contortions, roars 
of laughter, and comments, winch made the sacris- 
tan’s hair stand on end, though he had not the gift 
of tongues; for expressive gestures supplied th# 
place of words w ith those misbelievers. 


108 


THE IRON HAND : OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ What society !” murmured the church rat, 
“what society!” 

Once within his tent, Bertrand Duguesclin 
made a profound bow to the legate, and begged 
pardon for his soldiers in terms which restored a 
little courage to the poor ambassador. 

Then the legate seeing himself nearly out of 
danger, and under the safeguard of the consta- 
ble’s honour, reassumed all his dignity, and 
began an harangue, of which the sense ran as 
follows: — 

“That the Pope had sometimes an absolution 
for rebels, but money for none.” 

The other chiefs who, according to Duguesclin’s 
advice, had come by degrees, and entered one 
after the other, heard this reply, and did not hide 
from the legate that it gave them little satis- 
faction. 

“ Then, M. le Legat,” said Duguesclin, “ I be- 
gin to believe that we shall never be able to make 
honest fellows of our soldiers.” 

“ Well,” said the -legate, “ the idea of that 
eternal damnation to which, by a word, he has 
consigned so many souls, has touched his holiness ; 
as among all those souls there may be some less 
guilty than others, or even who sincerely repent. 
His holiness will therefore perform in your favours 
a miracle of clemency and goodness.” 

“ Ah! ah!” said the chiefs: “ What will that be? 
Let us hear what the miracle is?” 

“ His holiness,” replied the legate “ will grant 
that absolution which you so much desire.” 

“ And beside^? ” said Bertrand. 

“ But,” said the legate, who had not heard his 
holiness speak on any other subject, “is not 
that all?” 

“No,” said Bertrand, “no, it is very far 
from being so . thertf remains the question of 
money.’ 

“ The Pope did not speak to me of that; and 
I am completely ignorant on the subject,” answered 
the legate. “ I thought,” resumed the constable, 

“ that the English had given you a hint upon it. 

I heard them crying out ‘ money ! money ! ’ ” 

“ The holy father has none: his coffers are 
empty.” 

Duguesclin turned towards the chiefs, as if to 
ask them whether that were a satisfactory 
answer. 

The chiefs shrugged their shoulders contemp- 
tuously. 

“What do those gentlemen say?” asked the 
legate anxiously. ’ 

“ They say that the holy father has only to do 
as they do.” 

“ How so?” 

“ When their coffers are empty.” 

'* And what do they do?” 

“ They fill them.” 

And Duguesclin rose up. 

The legate understood that the audience was at 
an end. A slight flush had risen to the brown 
cheeks of the constable. 

The legate got across his mule and made ready 
to return to Avignon in the company of his sa- 
cristan, whose dismay was always increasing. 

“ Wait, wait!” said Duguesclin, “ wait mon- 
seigneur. Do not leave alone like that — you 
might get cut down on the road, and that would 
be very painful to my feelings.” 

The legate gave a jump, which showed that if 
Duguesclin did not believe in his words, he be- 
lieved. for his part, the words of Duguesclin. 

in fact, the constable walking by the side of the 
muie which the sacristan led by the bridle, recon* 


ducted the legate as far as the limits of the camp, 
without saying a word himself, but accompanied 
by such fierce gestures, such a terrible clashing of 
arms, and such theatening imprecations, that the 
legate thought his departure, although protected 
by the constable, much more alarming than his 
entry. 

And so, once out of the camp, the legate gave 
the spur to his mule, as if he had feared that they 
were about to catch him. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

HOW HIS HOLINESS, POPE URBAN V., AT LAST 
DECIDED TO PAY THE CRUSADE AND BLESS 
THE CRUSADERS. 

The unhappy fugitive had not yet returned to 
Avignon, when Duguesclin, causing his troops 
to advance, completed the formation of that ter- 
rible circle which had so alarmed Urban V. when 
he had seen it from the summit of his terrace. In 
this movement, Villeneuve la Beguide and Ger- 
vasy were carried without any resistance, although 
there was in Villeneuve a garrison of five or six 
hundred men. 

The constable had entrusted Hugh de Caverley 
with the execution of this manoeuvre and the 
occupation of those towns.* He knew the manner 
in which his followers were accustomed to prepare 
their lodgings, and did not doubt the impression 
which such a commencement of a campaign would 
make on the people of Avignon. 

In fact, that very evening the inhabitants of 
Avignon might see from their ramparts, the 
kindling of reat fires, which sometimes took long 
in lighting, but which always ended by blazing-up 
splendidly. By-and-bye, when they had made 
out the precise points where these flames burst 
forth, they could discern that their houses w^ero 
burning, and their olive trees serving as 
matches. 

At the same time the English exchanged the 
wines of Chalons, Thorins, and Beaune, of wnich 
they had still a taste left, against those of Rivesaltes, 
Hermitage, and St. Peray, which appeared to 
them stronger and sweeter. 

By the glare of all those fires, circling the 
town and lighting the English in their prepara- 
tions for the night, the Pope assembled his 
council. 

The cardinals were much at variance according 
to custom, and even more so than usual. Many 
were in favour of a redoubled severity, which 
should strike, not only the adventurers, but 
France with a salutary terror. 

But the legate, in whose ears the various shouts 
of the excommunicated army still resounded, did 
not hide from his holiness and his council the 
impression which he had received. 

The sacristan, for his part, was giving, in the 
Pope’s kitchen, the recital of the perils which he 
had incurred in the company of M. le Legat, and 
which they had only escaped by their heroic bear- 
ing which had enforced respect on the English, the 
French, and the Bretons. 

While the scullion was applauding the courage 
of the chorister, the cardinals were listening to 
the recital of the legate. 

“ I am ready to give my life in the holy father’s 
service;” said this last, “ for I may declare that I 
have already made that sacrifice, as my life has 

* Query, villages or suburbs.— T ranslate. 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


109 


never been exposed to such risk as during my 
mission to the camp. I certify, also, that unless 
in virtue of a precise order from his holiness, who, 
in that case, would send me to martyrdom, a mar- 
tyrdom to which I should go with joy, could I 
believe (but I do not believe it) that the faith 
would derive any encouragement from it, I would 
not return to those madmen without being the 
bearer of all their demands.” 

“We will see, we will see!” said the Pope, 
very agitated and extremely anxious. 

“ But, your holiness,” said one of the cardinals; 
u we see already, and that very clearly. 

“ What do we see?” 

“We see the flames of a dozen country houses, 
among which I can perfectly distinguish my own. 
And look, most holy father, at this very moment 
the roof is tumbling in.” 

“ The fact is,” said Urban, “that matters appear 
to have reached a crisis of urgency.” 

“ And I, most holy father, w ho have in my cel- 
lars the vintages of the last six years! They say 
that the misbeljevers do not even take the time to 
tap the butts, but that they drive them in, and 
drink in corresponding fashion.” 

“ I,” said a third, whose dwelling the train of 
fire was gradually approaching: “ I am of opinion 
that an ambassador should be sent to the con- 
stable to pray him, in the church s name, to 
cause the instant cessation of the ravages which 
the soldiers are making on our lands.” 

“ Will you take charge of the mission, my son?” 
asked the Pope. 

“ It would give me great pleasure, your holi- 
ness, but I am a very bad orator; and besides the 
constable does not know me, and it would be bet- 
ter, I think, to send him some face which he has 
seen already.” 

The Pope turned towards the legate. 

“I ask for time to say my in manus he re- 
plied. 

“ ’Tis but just,” said the Pope. 

“But ma'Ske haste!” said the cardinal, whose 
house was about to be burnt. 

The legate arose, made the sign of the cross, 
and said — 

“ I am ready to go to martyrdom.” 

“ I give you my blessing,” said the Pope. 

“ But what shall I say to them?” 

“Let them extinguish their fires and I will ex* 
tinguish my wrath ; let them cease to burn and I 
will cease to curse.” 

The legate shook his head like a man who has 
strong doubts of the success of his mission, but 
he did not the less seek for his faithful sacristan, 
who had scarcely finished the recital of his Iliad, 
when to his great terror he was obliged to 
undertake his Odyssey. 

Both then left in the same equipment as the first 
time. The Pope wished to. give them an escort of 
his soldiers, but these they positively refused; they 
were more fit to knit stockings when mounting 
guard, than to commit themselves with excommu- 
nicated persons. 

The legate was, therefore, compelled to leave 
without them, besides he liked this almost as well. 
Alone with the sacristan, he might at least count 
on his weakness. 

This time the legate, as he approached the 
camp, assumed a cheerful countenance; he had 
gathered a huge olive branch, to serve as a symbol 

J 

• That is to commend his spirit to God. An idea perhapv 
too solemn to be treated with so much levity. — T aaks- 

latoa. 


of peace, and from the first view which he got of 
the English, he shouted — 

“ Good news ! good news !” 

So that the English, who did not understand his 
language, but understood his gestures, did not re- 
ceive him too ill; that the French, who under- 
stood him perfectly, remained in expectation; and 
that the Bretons, who understood him nearly, 
bowed on his passage. 

This time the legate's return to the camp the 
more resembled a triumph, as, with a very great 
amount of good will, the conflagrations might be 
taken for bonfires of rejoicing.* 

But w r hen the poor ambassador had to announce 
to Duguesclin that he returned without bringing 
anything with him, save what he had promised on 
his first journey, that is— absolution, it was with 
tears in his eyes that he acquitted himself of his 
mission. 

And the more so, as when he had done, Du- 
guesclin looked at him in a way which seemed to 
say— 

“ And you have dared to return to make me 
such a proposition?” 

And so, without further hesitation, the legate 
exclaimed — “ Save my life M. le Connetable, save 
my life; for certainly when your soldiers know 
that I have returned to them with empty hands, I, 
who have announced to them good news, they 
will kill me.” 

“Humph!” said Duguesclin; “I won't say no, 
monseigneur.” 

“Alas! alas!” said the legate; “I had truly 
forewarned his holiness that he was sending me 
to martyrdom.” 

“ I niust confess,” said the constable, “ that they 
are not so much men as wehr wolves. Excommu- 
nication has had an effect upon them which 
astonishes even me. I thought their hides were 
tougher, but truly, if before to-morrow they have 
not two or three golden crowns per man to plaster 
the wounds made by the church’s thunderbolts, 
lean no longer answer for anything, and to-mor- 
row they may be capable of burning Avignon; 
and in Avignon, I say it with horror, the cardinals, 
and with the cardinals, I shudder, the Pope him- 
self.” 

“ But as to myself,” said the legate, “ you under- 
stand M. le Connetable, that I must be the bearer 
of the answer you have just given; that they may 
adopt a decision which may avert such great mis- 
fortunes, and in order that they may know this 
reply and learn this decision, I must roach them 
safe and sound. ’ 

“Were you to arrive somewhat flayed,” said 
Duguesclin, “ the effect, in my opinion, would be 
.‘somewhat increased. But,” he speedily added, 

“ we do not wish to constrain his holiness by vio- 
lence; we wish that his decision should be the ex- 
pression of his will, the result of his free election; 

I will, therefore, re-conduct you myself as I did the 
first time, and, for greater safety, will lead you 
out by a side issue.” . 

“Ah! sire co.me table,” said the legate, “that 
is what I need! you are indeed a true Christian.” 

Duguesclin kept his word. The legate left the 
camp safe and sound; but behind him the pillage 
interrupted for an instant by the announcement 
he had made of good news, was renewed with re- 
doubled fury. 

It was but natural : disappointment had augmen- 
ted anger. 

* The French term “feu dejoief s naturalised in Eng- 
lish, but more for a military volley with bUnk cartridge 
than lor % bonfire. 


110 THE IRON HAND: OR. THE KNIGHT" OF MAULEON. 


The wines were drank, the furniture dispersed, 
the grain strewed on* the ground. 

The people of Avignon, always from their ram- 
parts, for the bravest did not dare to leave, the 
town, saw themselves thoroughly plundered and 
ruined. 

The cardinals lamented their hard fate. 

The Pope then sent to propose paying a hun- 
dred thousand crowns. 

“ You can bring them in any case, and we will 
see afterwards,” answered Duguesclin. 

The Pope assembled his council, and with the 
signs of grief deeply imprinted on his countenance, 
said, “ My sons, we must consent to the sacri- 
fice.” 

“Yes,” said the cardinals with one voice: “for, 
as Ezekiel says, ‘ The enemy has entered our 
lands, he has laid waste our towns with fire and 
blood, and he has ravished our wives and our 
daughters.’ ” 

“ Let us sacrifice ourselves then,” said Urban 
V., and already the treasurer awaited the order 
to -open the coffers. 

“ They demand a hundred thousand crowns,” 
said the Pope 

“ We must gi'"e them,” said the cardinals. 

“ Alas ! ye sA said his holiness. 

And raising his eyes to heaven, he gave a deep 
sigh. 

Then he called : “ Angelo !” 

The treasurer bowed. 

“ Angelo,” continued the Pope, “ you will go 
and promulgate through the town that I shall levy 
a contribution of one hundred thousand crowns, — 
you will not say at first whether of gold or silver, 
that will appear subsequently, — that I levy a con- 
tribution of one hundred thousand crowns on the 
unfortunate people.” 

“ If complaints are made,” continued the Pope, 
“ you will relate what you have witnessed, that 
neither my prayers nor those of my cardinals 
Have been able to save my well-beloved people 
from this extremity so painful to my heart.” 

The cardinals and the treasurer looked at the 
Pope with admiration. 

“ In fact,” said the Pope, “ these poor people are 
even very lucky at being able to redeem their 
houses and goods at so low a price. But in verity, 
in verity !” he added, with tears in his eyes, 
“ nothing is so sad as for a prince to be thus com- 
pelled to give away his subjects’ money.” 

“ Which on any future occasion might have been 
so useful to your holiness,” added the treasurer, 
with a bow. 

“ Finally — God wills it !” said the Pope. 

And the contribution was raised with many 
murmurs when it was believed that only silver 
crowns were required, and not a little resistance 
when it was known they were to be of gold. 

It was then that his. holiness had recourse to 
his guards, and as they had no longer to deal with 
excommunicates but only with good Christianas, 
they laid down their knitting needles and seized 
their pikes in such a martial manner, that the 
A vignonnais instantly returned to their duty. 

At day-break, the legate, now no longer with 
his mule, but with ten richly caparisoned horses, 
wended his way towards the excommunicate 
camp. 

But instead of finding Bertrand highly delighted, 
as he had expected, by the palpable and ringing 
proofs brougnt to him of the holy see’s submission, 
he was surprised to see him quite sulky, turning 
and returning between his fingers a parchment 
with a newly-broken seaL 


“ Ah !” said the constable, shaking his head, 

“ fine-money is this you bring me, Monseigneur 
ie Legat.” 

Is it not so?” answered the ambassador, who 
thought that money was always money, and there- 
fore always good. 

“ Yes,” continued Duguesclin, “ but a scruple 
stops me; where does this money come from?” 

“ From his holiness, since it is his holiness who 
sends it you.” 

“ Very good! but who has furnished it?” 

“ Truly! his holiness I presume.” 

“ Pardon me, M. le Legat,” said Duguesclin, 

“ but a Churchman should not lie.” 

“ Yet,” said the legate, “ I can testify — ” 

“ Read that.” 

And Duguesclin handed to the legate the parch- 
ment which he had been rolling and unrolling 
between his fingers. 

The legate took the parchment and read: 

“ Is it the intention of the noble knight, Dugues- 
clin, that an innocent town, already heavily mulcted 
by its prince, should be further oppressed, that 
poor citizens already half-ruined, and artizans 
dying with hunger, should be deprived of their 
last mouthful of bread in order to defray a war 
waged from caprice? This question is put in the 
name of humanity to the most loyal of Christian 
knights, by the poor city of Avignon, which has 
just be°n sweated to blood, of a hundred thou- 
sand golden crowns, while his holiness keeps in 
the cellars of his palace two millions of crowns, 
without reckoning the treasures of Rome.” 

“ Well,” asked Bertrand angrily, when the 
legate had finished Ins perusal. 

“Alas!” said the legate, “his holiness mint 
ha ve been Detrayed.” 

“ What is told, then, concerning these buried 
treasures is true?” 

“ It is so said.” 

“ Then, Monseigneur le Legat,” said the consta- 
ble, “ take back that gold; it is not the bread of tl e 
poor which is required by those who go to figl t 
in God’s cause, it is the superfluity of the wealthy, 
listen well then to what l, Bertrand Duguesclin, 
constable of France, say to you: If the two hun- 
dred crowns of the Pope and cardinals are not 
here before the evenin", I will burn this night, 
not the suburbs, not the town, but the palace, and 
with the palace the cardinals, and with the cardi- 
nals the Pope; so that of Pope, cardinals, and 
palace, not a vestige shall remain to-morrow 
morning. Depart, Monseigneur le Legat.” 

These noble words were sainted by a • salvo of 
applause from soldiers, officers, and chiefs, which 
left no doubt in the legate’s mind as to their . 
unanimity of opinions, so that preserving silence 
amid these noisy acclamations, he retook with his 
loaded horses the road to Avignon. 

“ My children,” said the constable to those of 
his soldiers who, being too remote, had heard 
nothing, and who were astonished at the shouts of 
their comrades, “these poor people had only a 
hundred thousand crowns to give us; it is too 
little, for it is just what I have promised to your 
leaders. The Pope will give us two hundred 
thousand.” 

In fac% three hours afterwards, twenty horses 
bending under their burden passed for good the 
barriers of Duguesclin’s camp, and the legate, 
after making three heaps of the specie, one of a 
hundred thousand golden crowns, and two others 
of fifty thousand each, concluded by giving the 
pontifical benediction, to which the adventurer^ 
who were good fellows enough when all their 


Ill 


* ^ 

THE IRON HAND ; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


wishes were complied with, replied by wishing 
him all manner of prosperity. 

Then, when the legate had left: — 

“ Now,” said Duguesclin to Hugh de Caverley, 
to Claude l’Ecorcheur, and to the Green Knight, 
« let us regulate our accounts.” 

“ So be it,” said the adventurers. 

« I owe you fifty thousand golden crowns, being 
a crown for each soldier. W as it not so that our 
agreement ran?” 

“ It did so.” 

Bertrand attached the larger heap. “ Here are 
fifty thousand golden crowns,” said he. 

The adventurers counted after Bertrand Dugues- 
clin, in virtue of that proverb, which was already 
in vogue during the fourteenth century— “ Money 
deserves the trouble of being twice counted 

“ Good,” said they, “ that is the portion of the 
soldiers; let us proceed to that of the officers. ’ 

Bertand took from the same heap twenty thou- 
sand crowns. 

“ Four thousand officers,” said he, “ at five 
crowns per officer. Here : twenty thousand crowns. 
Is that your account?” 

The chiefs began to pile up the coins. 

“ It is right,” said they, after a brief interval. 

“ Good,” said Duguesclin. “ The chiefs’ portion 
remains.” 

“ Yes, that of the chiefs’ remain,” said Caveiley, 
I eking his lips, like a man anticipating a jovial 
feast. 

“Now,” said Bertrand, “ten chiefs at three 
thousand crowns each; is it not so?” 

It is what we agreed on.” 

“ Here: thirty thousand crowns,” said Ber- 
trand, showing what remained of the larger heap 
of gold. 

“ The balance is there,” said the adventurers, 
h nothing more need be said.” 

“ So f liat you have no longer any objection to 
enter on the campaign?” asked Bertrand. 

“ None, and we are ready,” answered Caverley. 
“ Reserving, however, our oaths of fealty to the 
Prince of Wales.” 

“Yes,” said Bertrand; “but those oaths only 
concern the English subjects.” 

“ Well understood.” replied the *aptain. 

“ All is now agreed on.” 

“ And we are satisfied. But ” 

“ What?” asked Dugudsclin. 

“ The hundred thousand crowns which re- 
main?” ^ 

“ You are' leaders of too much foresight not to 
understand that an army about to take the field, 
requires a military chest.” 

“ Doubtless,” said Caverley. 

“Well! fifty thousand crowns are destined for 
our general chest.” 

“ Good!” said Caverley, to his companions, “ I 
understand.” 

“ And the fifty thousand more for the private 
chest.” 

“ Ah ! what a clever fellow !” 

“ Come here, sir chaplain,” added Bertrand, 
“ and let us draw up together a letter for our 
good lord, the King of France, to accompany the 
fifty thousand crowns which I am about to send 
him.” 

“Ah!” said Caverley, “that is very fine; for 
my part, I would not do as much even for the 
Prince of Wales himself.” 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

HOW MESSIRE HUGH DE CAVERLEY MISSKT 
GAINING A HUNDRED THOUSAND GOLDEN CROWNS 

It will be remembered that, in the garden scene 
we left Ai’ssa regaining her father’s house, while 
Agenor disappeared on the other side of the wall. 

Musaron had understood that nothing further 
existed to keep his master at Bordeaux; and 
therefore as soon as the young man had recovered 
from the reverie in which he had been plunged 
by the incidents which had just occurred, he found 
his horse ready saddled and his squire ready for 
departure. 

Agenor vaulted into the saddle at a bound, then 
giving both spurs to his horse, he left the city at 
a gajjop, followed by Musaron, who bantered him 
according to custom. 

“ Sir,” said he, “ we are getting away very 
quickly, I think. Where the devil have you put 
the treasure which you went to look for at the 

infidel's?" 

Agenor shrugged his shoulders, and made no 
reply. 

“ Do not kill your good horse, master; we shall 
need it to make the campaign. He will not go 
long at that rate, I warn you; especially if, like 
Prince Henry of Transtamara, you have sewn up 
only fifty marks of gold in the lining of youi 
saddle.” 

“ In fact,” said Agenor, “I think you are right. 
Fifty marks of gold and fifty marks of iron are 
too much for one beast.” 

And he let his lance, welded with steel, fall on 
the shoulders of the disrespectful squire. 

Musaron’s shoulders bent under the burden; 
and, as Agenor had for seen, his gaiet} 7 was con- 
siderably diminished by this increase of his load. 

They crossed thus, keeping close on the track 
of Don Henry, but without overtaking him, 
Guienne and Bearn; and then crossing the Pyre- 
nees, entered Spain through Arragon. 

It was only in this province that they overtook 
the prince, whom they recognised by the flames 
of a small town which had been set on fire by 
Messire Hugh de Caverley. 

It was thus that the companies marked their 
entry into Spain. Messire Hugh, like a lover of' 
the picturesque, had chosen the town, which he 
intended as a Pharos, on an eminence, so that the 
flames might light for ten leagues round the 
country which was still unknown to him, and with 
which he desired to make acquaintance. 

Henry was not surprised at this fancy of the Eng- 
lish captain. He knew for long all the chiefs of the 
companies, and was acquainted with their method 
of proceeding. He begged, however, Messire 
Bertrand Duguesclin to interpose his authority 
with those under his orders, so that they might 
devastate as little as possible. 

“ For,” said he, very judiciously, “ as this king- 
dom is one day to belong to me, I like as well to 
have it in a good as in a ruined condition.” 

“ Well, my lord, so be it,” was Caverley’s* reply; 
“ but on one condition.” 

“ What is that?” asked Henry. 

That your highness shall pay a duty for each 
house which is left intact, and for every woman 
who escapes violation.” 

“ I do not understand!” said the prince, master- 
ing the repugnance which the co-operation of 
such bandits caused him. 

* The author here leaves too much to be underst od, 
slipping from Duguesclin to Caverley without warnin. . — 
Translator. 


112 


THE IRON TTANP: OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ Nothing, however,” said Caverley, “ can be 
said ; since your towns when spared, and your 
population when doubled, must be worth muney 
I should think.” 

“ Well ! so be it,” said Henry, striving to smile. 
‘•We will talk of that fit morrow morning; but in 
the mean time?” 

“ In the mean time, my lord, Arragon may 
sleep in peace. I can see clearly for ail the night; 
and God be thanked, Hugh de Caverley has not 
the reputation of a prodigal.” 

On this promise — on which, however singular 
in its form, he might rely Henry withdrew with 
Mauleon under his tent, while Caverley regained 
his own. 

Messire Hugh de Caverley, instead of going to 
rest, as might have been expected after the 
fatigues of the day, listened to the sound of the 
retreating footsteps; then, when they were lost 
in the distance, he called for his secretary. 

This secretary was a very important person in 
the brave captain’s household; for whether this 
last knew not how to write, which is possible, or dis- 
dained to hold a pen, which is possible, it was the 
worthy scribe who was charged with the drawing 
up of all the transactions between the chief of 
ad venturers and the prisoners from whom he ex- 
torted a ransom. Now few days passed over 
without the secretary of Messire Hugh de Ca- 
verley having some transaction of that kind to 
register. 

The scribe came forward, a pen in one hand an 
inkstand in the other, and a roll of parchment 
under *h is arm. 

“ Come hither, Master Robert,” said the cap- 
tain, “ and draw me up an acquittance with a safe 
conduct.” 

“An acquittance for what sum?” asked the 
clerk. 

“Leave the sum in blank; but don’t stint 
the space, for the sum is a round one.” 

“ In whose name?” asked the scribe. 

“ Leave the name in blank as well as the 
sum.” 

“ And is much room to be left here also?” 

“ Yes; for the name will be followed by not a 
few titles.” 

••Good, good!” said Master Robert, going to 
work with a speed which might make one believe 
that he was paid in proportion to the quantum of 
the receipt. “ But where is the prisoner?” 

“ They are prepared for his capture.” 

The scribe knew the custom of his master; he 
did not hesitate an instant to complete the docu- 
ment. As the captain said they were prepared 
to capture the prisoner, he was already captured. 

This opinion was not too complimentary fo 
the captain, for scarcely had the document been 
completed when a noise gradually drawing nearer 
was^ heard in the direction of the mountain. 

Caverley appeared rather to have guessed than 
to have heard this oise, for, before it had readied 
the watchful ears of the sentinel, the captain 
opened the entrance to his tent. 

“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel almost 
immediately. 

“ Friends!” replied the well-known voice of 
Caverley’ s lieutenant. 

“ Yes, yes, friends,” said the adventurer rubbing 
his hands together, “ let them pass, and raise your 
pike as they come in. Those whom I expect are 
well worth the trouble.” 

At that moment, by the last flames of the ex- 
piring conflagration, a small troop of prisoners 
surrounded by twenty-five or thirty adventurers. 


' was seen advancing. This troop was composed 
i of a knight who appeared at once in the strength 
| and flower of his years, of a Moor, who held clo>e 
to the curtains of a large litter, and of two at- 
tendants. 

As soon as Caverley could discern that this 
troop really consisted of the persons just enume- 
rated, he made all who were in his tent leave it, 
w ith the exception of his secretary. 

Those whom he sent away left with a regret 
which they did not take the trouble to dissemble, 
and making calculations as to the value of -the 
capture which had fallen into the claws of the 
bird of prey, whom they owned as their chieftain. 

At the appearance of the four persons within 
the walls of his tent, Caverley bowed profoundly; 
then addressing the knight: — 

“ Sire,” said he, “ if, perchance, my followers 
have failed in courtesy towards your highness, 
pardon them ; tfiey did not know you.” 

“ Sire!” repeated the prisoner, with an accent to 
which he sought to give the expression of sur- 
prise; but at the same time betraying his anxiety 
by his paleness, “is it me' that you address, 
captain?” 

“Yourself, sire, Don Pedro, the redoubtable 
sovereign of Castile and Murcia.” 

The knight from being pale, became livid. A 
desperate attempt to smile passed over his lips. 

“ Truly, captain,” &aid he, “ I am sorry for 
you; but you are much in error, if you take me 
for him whom you have just named.” 

“ I’faith, your highness, I take you for what 
you are, and I truly think I have made a great 
prize.” 

“Believe what you please,” said the knight, 
making a movement towards a seat, “ it will 
not be difficult, I think, to make you alter your 
opinion.” 

“ In order that I should change it, your high- 
ness, it would be needful that you should not be 
so imprudent as to walk about.” 

The knight clenched his fists. 

“ And why so?” he asked. 

“ Because your bones c ack at every step you 
make, which is a very agreeable music for the 
poor leader of a company, into whose nets Provi- 
dence has been so bountiful as to send a king,” 

“ Is Don Pedro then the only person whose 
bones make that noise when he walks, and may 
not another man be subject to the same in- 
firmity?” 

“ Truly,” said Caverley, “ the thing is possible, 
and you perplex me; but I have a certain means 
to ascertain my error, if it is as you say.” 

“ What is it?” asked the knight, knitting his 
brow, and visibly annoyed by this colloquy. 

“ Prince Henry of 'I ranstamara is but a hundred 
steps from here; I will send for him, and we will 
see if he recognises his beloved- brother.” 

The knight in spite of himself showed signs of 
anger. 

“Ah! you grow flushed!” said Caverley; “well 
confess, and if you confess, I swear to you on the 
honour of a captain that all shall pass between us 
two only, and that your brother shall not even 
know that I had the honour of conversing a few 
instants with your highness.” 

“ Well, proceed: what is that you want?” 

“ I can want nothing as your highness can well 
understand, until J am thoroughly assured as to 
the identity of the person who is detained in mv 
hands.” 

“ Suppose, tnen, that I really am the king, and 
speak on.” 


THE TRON HAND: OR. THE KNTOHT OF MAULEON. 


m 



“ Plague on’t! As yon say that, sire, speak your- 
self! Do you think I have so little to say to you 
hat it can be dispatched in two words? No; what 

required, my lord, above all things, is a guard 
ortliy of your highness!” 

“A guard! You count then on detaining me a 
prisoner?” 

“ That, at least, is my intention.” 

“ And I-- T sa v to you that 1 will not remain here 
an hour longer, even should it cost me the half of 
my kingdom.” 

Oh! it will cost you quite that, sire, and it will 
not be too much, since, in the position you are now 
in, you are nearly sure of losing ail.” 

“Fix a price then!” exclaimed the prisoner. 

“ T v\ id reflect, sire,” said Caverley, coolly. 

: • ' Pedro appeared to make a violent effort 
■ ^elf-control, and without replying a word, sat 
l‘ vv n against the canvas of the tent, turning his 
Lack on the captain. 


Caverley appeared to reflect deeply; then, after 
a momem’s sflenee — 

“You can well afford to give me half a million 
of golden crowns, cn%x you not?” 

“You are stupid,” replied the king. “They 
could not be found in all Spain.” 

“ Three hundred thousand, then? I hope I am 
reasonable.” 

“ Not the half,’’ said the king. 

“ Then, my lord,” replied Caverley, “ I w ill 
write a word to your brother, Henry of Transta- 
mara. He knows what royal ransoms are better 
than I do, and will fix the price of yours.” 

Don Pedro cloi-ed his fists, and the sweat might 
be seen bursting from under the roots of his hair 
and running down his cheeks. 

Caverley turned towards his secretary: “ Master 
Robert,” said he, “ go and invite, on my behalf, 
the prince, Don Henry of Transtamara, to join me 
under my teat.” 


114 


THE TRON HAND; OH, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


The scribe walked to the outlet of the tent, but 
as he was about to cross it, Don Pedro rose up. 

.“I will give,” he said, “the three hundred 
thousand golden crowns.” . 

Caverley bounded with joy. 

“ But, as when I leave you I may fall into the 
hands of some other bandit of your description, 
who will ask another ransom from me, I demand 
from you a receipt and a safe conduct.” 

“ And you, you will count down for me the 
three hundred thousand crowns?” 

“Not so; for you understand that one cannot 
carry such a sum about with one; but you have, 
I dare say, among your men some Jew who knows 
the value of diamonds.” 

“ I can tell that myself, sire,” said Caverley. 

“’Tis well. Hither, Mothril,” said the king, 
making a sign to the Moor to come nearer. “ You 
have heard?” 

“Yes, sire,” said Mothril, drawing from his 
loose pantaloons a long purse, through the rings 
of which glittered those wondrous sparkles which 
the king of precious stones borrows from the king 
of stars. 

“ Prepare the receipt,” said Don Pedro. 

“ It is already drawn up,” said the captain, “ the 
sum only remains to be filled in.” 

“And the safe conduct?” 

“ It is below, already signed. I am too much 
your highness’s servant to make you wait. ’ 

A convulsive smile passed over the king’s lips. 
Then, approaching the table, he read: — 

“ t, the undersigned Hugh de Caverley, chief of 
the English adventurers — 

The king read not a word further; a flash as 
of lightning darted from his eyes. 

“ You are named Hugh de Caverley?” he 
said. 

“Yes,” replied the chief, astonished at the 
radiant expression, of which he in vain sought to 
divine the reason. 

“ And you are the chief of the English adven- 
turers?” continued Don Pedro. 

“ Doubtless.” 

“ An instant, then,” said the king. “ Mothril, 
replace those diamonds in your purse, and your 
purse in your pocket.” 

“Why so?” 

“ Because it is for me to give orders here, and 
not to receive them,” exclaimed Don Pedro, draw- 
ing a parchment from his breast. 

“Orders!” said Caverley, haughtily. “Learn, 
sire, that there is but one man in the world who 
has the right to give orders to Captain Hugh de 
Caverley.” 

“ And that man’s signature,” replied Don Pedro, 
“ is affixed to the bottom of this parchment. In 
the name of the Black Prince, Hugh de Caverley, 
I demand your obedience.” 

Caverley, shaking his head, cast a glance at the 
parchment unrolled in the king’s hand; but 
scarcely had he seen the signature than he uttered 
a cry of rage, at which the officers who had re- 
mained outside the tent ran in. 

The parchfnent which the prisoner presented 
to the chief of adventurers, was, in fact, the safe 
conduct given by the Black Prince to Don Pedro, 
with an order to all English subjects to obey him 
in all things, until the prince himself should arrive 

take the command of the English army. 

“I see,” said Don Pedro, “that decidedly I 
shall get off more cheaply than you thought, or 
than I either. But be at ease my brave fellow, 
and I will compensate you.” 

“ You are in the right, sire,” said Caverley with 


a sinister smile, which, through his lowered visor 
could not be discerned. “ Not only you are free, 
but I wait to receive your orders.” 

“ Well!” said Don Pedro, “ order, then, as was 
your intention, Master Robert to go and look for 
my brother, Prince Henry of Transtamara, and 
to bring him hither.” 

The scribe consulted the captain by a glance, 
and, on an affirmative sign being made by Messire 
Hugh de Caverley, left the tent. 

CHAPTER XXV. 

IN WHICH WILL BE FOUND THE SEQUEL AND THE 
EXPLANATION OF THAT WHICH ^RECEDES. 

This is the manner in which those events occurred 
which have remained unknown to our readers, 
after the departure, or rather the flight of Agenor, 
consequent on the scene in the garden at Bordeaux. 

Don Pedro had obtained from the Prince of 
Wales the protection which he needed to re-enter 
Spain, and sure of a reinforcement of men and 
money, had commenced his journey in company 
with Mothril, and provided with a safe conduct, 
which gave him power and safety amidst the bands 
of English adventurers. 

The small troop had taken the direction of the 
frontier where, as we have said, the valiant Hugh 
de Caverley had spread his unavoidable net. 

And yet, whatever might have been the chief’s 
vigilance and the soldiers’ address, it is probable 
that, thanks to the knowledge he had of the locali- 
ties, the king, Don Pedro, might have passed 
along the frontier of Arragon, and reached New 
Castile without any accident, had not the following 
incident occurred: — 

One evening, while the king was following with 
Mothril, on a large Cordova parchment containing 
a map of all Spain, the road which they were about 
to follow, the curtains of the litter were opened, 
and Aissa’s head glided through the aperture. 

The young Moresca cast a glance at a slave lying 
near her litter, which intimated that he should ap- 
proach her. 

“ Slave,” she asked, “ what is your country?” 

“ I was born,” said he “ on the other side of the 
sea, on the coast which looks towards Grenada, 
and which does not envy it.” 

“ And you would wish to see your country again, 
would you not?” 

“ Yes,” said the slave, with a deep sigh. 

“ To-morrow, if you will, you may be free.” 

“It is far from here to the Lake Laoudiah,” 
said he, “ and the fugitive would have died of hun- 
ger before he reached it.” 

“No; for the fugitive will carry with him this 
necklace of pearls, of which one would suffice to 
maintain him during all the journey.” 

And Aissa unfastened her necklace, which she 
let fall into the slave’s hand. 

“ And what must I do to gain at once liberty 
and this pearl necklace,” said the slave, trembling 
with joy. 

“ iou. see,” said Aissa, “ that greyish line which 
skirts the horizon: that is the Christian camp. 
What time would it take you to get there?” 

“ Before the nightingale has finished his song,” 
said the slave, “ I shall have reached it.” 

“ Well, then, listen to what I am about to tell 
you, and engrave my words in the depths of your 
memory.” 

Ike slave listened with ecstatic ravishment. 

“ Take this note;” continued Aissa, “gain the 
] camp, and once in the camp, inquire after a noble 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


115 


French knight, a chief named the Count de Mau- 
leon ; cause yourself to be conducted to him, and 
give him this little bag, for which in his turn he 
will give you a hundred pieces of gold. Go!” 

The slave seized the bag, hid it under his rude 
habiliments, chose the moment when one of the 
mules was straying into a neighbouring wood, and 
pretending to run after and catch it, disappeared 
in the wood with the swiftness of an arrow. 

None remarked the disappearance of the slave 
save AYssa, who followed him with her eyes, and 
who, palpitating with anxiety, only recovered her 
breath when he was quite out of sight. 

What the young Moresca had foreseen happened. 
The slave was not long before meeting on the skirts 
of the underwood one of those birds of prey with 
steel claws, having a morion shaped like a beak, a 
flexible plumage of steel rings, and perched on a 
rock overlooking the briars, where he had taken post 
to get a more extended view. 

The slave coming out of the brushwood much 
flurried, fell under the observation of the sentinel, 
who immediately levelled his crossbow at him. 

The fugitive desired to be recognised. He 
made a sign that he wished to speak ; the sentinel 
approached without lowering his crossbow. The 
slave then said that he was going to the Chris- 
tian camp, and asked to be conducted to Mauleon. 

This name, of which A'issa exaggerated the 
importance, enjoyed, however, a certain notoriety 
among the companies, since the bold trait of 
Agenor, when he had been arrested by Caverley’s 
band, and, above all, since it was known that to 
him was owing the co-operation of the con- 
stable. 

The soldier uttered his rallying cry, took the 
slave by the wrist and led him to a second 
sentinel, placed about two hundred paces from 
him. This last in his turn conducted the slave to 
the second chain of vedettes, and thence to where 
Hugli de Caverley, in the centre of his troop, like a 
spider in the midst of his web, was seated in his 
tent. 

Having understood by some movement which 
he could perceive around him, by some rumour 
which had reached his ears, that something new 
was taking place, he appeared at the entrance of 
his tent. 

The slave being led directly to him, named the 
Bastard of Mauleon, the password which had 
served him till then. 

“ Who sends you?” asked Caverley of the 
slave, endeavouring to avoid an explanation. 

“ Are you the Seigneur de Mauleon ?” asked 
the slave. 

“ I am his friend,” answered Caverley, “ and one 
of the dearest he has.” 

“ It is not the same thing,” said the slave ; “ I 
have orders to deliver to him only the letter of 
which I am the bearer.” 

“Listen,” said Caverley; “the Seigneur de 
Mauleon is a brave Christian knight, who has 
numerous enemies among the Arabs and Moors, 
who have sworn to assassinate him. We have, 
therefore, sworn to allow none to enter his pre- 
sence without having first acquainted ourselves 
with the message of which he is the bearer.” 

“Well,” said the slave, seeing that all resist- 
ance would be useless, and believing besides that 
the captain had good intentions; “well! I am sent 
1 y A'issa.” 

“ What's AYssa?” asked Caverley. 

“ The daughter of the noble Mothril.” 

“ Ah ! ah !” said the captain, “ of the king, Don 
Pedro’s counsellor?” i 


“ Exactly.” 

“ You see that the matter becomes more and 
more mysterious, and this message, doubtless, 
must contain something magical.” 

“AYssa is not a magician,” said the slave, 
shaking his head. 

“ No matter, I must read your note.” 

The slave cast a glance around him to see if 
flight were possible, but a great circle of ad- 
venturers had already closed around him. He 
drew A Yssa’s bag from his breast and handed it to 
the captain. 

“ Read,” said he; “ you will see in it something 
which concerns myself.” 

The somewhat elastic conscience of Caverley 
did not need this invitation. He opened the bag, 
perfumed with benzoin and amber, and drew from 
it a square piece of white satin, on which, with a 
thickened ink, A'issa’s hand had traced the follow- 
ing words in Spanish:— 

“ My dear lord — I write to you according to my 
promise; the king, Don Pedro, and my father, are 
with me, ready to pass the defiles and enter 
Arragon; you may make at one blow our eternal 
happiness and your glory. Make them prisoners, 
and with them myself, who will be your gentle 
captive; if you wish to get a ransom from them 
they are rich enough to content your desire for 
gain; if you prefer glory to money and give them 
back their liberty for nothing, they have spirit 
enough to proclaim your generosity everywhere; 
but if you deliver them, you will, oh! my great 
lord, keep me, and I have a coffer full of rubies 
and emeralds, which would not disgrace a queen's 
diadem. 

“Listen, then, and remember well what follows: — 
This night we commence our journey. Post 
your soldiers in the defile in such wise that we 
cannot traverse it without being seen. Our escort 
is at present weak, but from hour to hour it may 
become stronger, for six hundred men-at-arms 
whom the king was waiting for at Bordeaux, have 
been only prevented from rejoining us by the rapi- 
dity of our progress. 

“ You now see, my great lord, how AYssa may 
become wholly yours, and without any being 
able to take her from you, since she will have 
been conquered by the strength of your victorious 
arm. 

“ One of our slaves is the bearer of this message; 

I have promised that you will liberate him, and 
give him a hundred pieces of gold— fulfil my 
wishes. — Your Aissa.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” thought Caverley, while emotion 
made the perspiration run down under his helmet, 

“ a kin*?. But what have I done them for some 
time, that fortune s 1 - >uld send me such waifs and 
strays? A king! We must look after that, in 
the devil’s name! But first, to get rid of this 
blockhead!” 

“ Then,” said he, “ the Seigneur de Mauleon 
owes you liberty?” 

“ Yes, captain, and a hundred pieces of gold.” 

Hugh de Caverley deemed no reply requisite to 
the second part of this demand. However, he 
called for his squire, 

“Here!” said he; “take your horse, lead this 
man two good leagues distance from the camp, 
and there leave him. If he ask you for money, 
and you have too much, give him some. But I 
warn you, it will be pure liberality on your part. 
Go, my friend,” he said to the slave, “ your com- 
mission is performed. It- is I who am tbe 
Seigneur de Mauleon.” 

The slave touched the ground with his fore 


116 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


hetad* “ And the hundred pieces of gold?” he 
asked. 

“ My treasurer, whom you see,” said Hugh de 
Caverley, pointing to the squire, “ is ordered to 
pay them into your hands.” 

The slave arose, and followed in a joyful mood 
the person pointed out to him. 

He was scarcely a hundred paces from the tent, 
when the captain sent a detachment into the 
mountain i and not disdaining to attend to those 
humble precautions himself, placed with his own 
hands, the sentinels in the defile, in such wise that 
no one could traverse it without being perceived, 
and having enjoined that no violence should be 
done the prisoners, he awaited the issue. 

We have seen him in this expectation, and the 
event soon came to fulfil his desires. The king, 
impatient to continue his journey, wished to take 
the road without longer waiting. They were 
therefore surrounded in the ravine, greatly to the 
delight of Aissa, who eageyly awaited the attack, 
which she believed was led by Mauleon. The 
measures taken by Caverley were besides so good, 
and the number of the English so great, that not 
one of Don Pedro’s men made an effort in self- 
defence. 

But Aissa, who hoped to see Mauleon at the 
head of this ambuscade, soon began to feel anxious 
concerning his absence; she thought, however, 
that he acted thus from prudence, and that besides 
as the enterprise succeeded according to her 
wishes, that she should not yet despair of any- 
thing. 

Now we shall be no longer astonished that the 
adventurer had so easily recognised Don PecL o, 
who, besides, was easy to recognise. 

As to Mothril and Aissa, whose history he 
guessed with his extraordinary perspicuity, he was 
indeed a little alarmed at the anger which that 
discovery would excite in Mauleon, but he had 
almost instantly recollected that it was easy to lay 
all blame on the treachery of the slave, and that 
on the contrary he might make this abuse of con- 
fidence a title to Mauleon’s gratitude; for while 
he intended to make Mothril and the king pay 
their ransom, he proposed on the other hand to 
abandon Aissa to the young man witho«t claim- 
ing any compensation, and plumed himself be- 
forehand on this piece of unwonted gene- 
rosity. 

It has already been seen how the exhibition by 
Don Pedro of the Prince of Wales’s safe conduct 
changed the face of affairs, and overthrew the 
bold and skilfully projected plans of Caverley. 

Don Pedro, after Robert’s departure, had pro- 
ceeded to relate to the chief of adventurers the 
circumstances of the treaty concluded at Bor- 
deaux. when a great noise was heard. It was a 
clatter of horses’ feet, a clash of armour, and of 
swords ringing by the side of men-at-arms. 

Then the canvas of the tent was suddenly lifted, 
and the pale face of Henry de Transtamara, illu- 
mined by a sinister smile, was seen at the 
opening. 

Mauleon behind the prince searched around 
for' some one; he perceived the litter, and his eyes 
no longer left it. On Henry’s arrival, Don Pedro' 
drew back not less pale than his brother, seeking 
his absent sword at his side, and only appearing 
re-assured, when he had recoiled as far as one of 
the pillars of the tent, which supported a complete 
panoply, and had felt under his hand the cold steel 
of a battle axe. 

Both looked at each other in silence for an 
instant, exchanging looks which crossed each 


other threateningly, like flashes ol lightning in a 
storm. 

Henry was the first to break silence. 

“ I think,” he said, with a gloomy smile, “ that 
the war is now ended before it has begun.” 

“ Ah ! you think so,” answered Don Pedro in a 
tone of sarcastic menace. 

“ I believe it so surely,” answered Henry, 
“ that I will ask, in the first place, the noble 
knight, Hugh de Caverley, what price he asks for 
a capture so important as that he has just effected; 
for had he taken twenty towns, and gained twenty 
battles, exploits which are largely rewarded, he 
would not have so many rights* to our gratitude as 
by this single achievement.” 

“ It is flattering to me,” replied Don Pedro, 
playing with the handle of his axe, “ to be rated 
at so high a value. Therefore courtesy for cour- 
tesy. Were you in the situation in which you 
think me, at how much, may I ask, would you 
rate your personal value, Don Henry?” 

“ I think he still presumes to jest,” said Henry, 
with a fury which struggled with his joy, like the 
ice of the pole with the first beams of the sun. 

“ Let us see how all this will end,” muttered Ca- 
verley, sitting down in order not to lose any detail 
of the scene, and beginning to enjoy the spectacle, 
rather as an amateur artist than a greedy spe- 
culator. 

Henry turned round to his side; it might be 
seen that he was about to answer Don Pedro. 

“Well!” said he, casting on Don Pedro a look 
laden with hate, “ for that man, formerly a king, 
and who has now no longer on his forehead even 
the gilded reflection of his crown, I will give you, 
friend Caverley, either two hundred thousand 
golden crowns or two good cities, according to 
your choice ” 

“ But,” said Caverley, stroking with one hand 
the chin-piece of his helmet, while he continued 
through his closed visor to look at Don Pedro, 
“it seems to me that the offer is acceptable; 
although ” 

This last replied to the interrogatory by a 
glance and gesture which signified: “ Captain, 
my brother Henry is not generous, and I will 
make you a higher offer.” 

“ Althou h!’’ replied Henry, repeating the last 
word of the chief of the adventurers. “ What 
mean you, captain?” 

Mauleon could no longer repress his curiosity, 

“ The captain means, no doubt,” he remarked, 
“that he made other prisoners with Don Pedro, 
and that he wishes their value to be also fixed.” 

“I’faith! that is what I call reading in a man’s 
thoughts,” exclaimed Caverley ; “ and you are a 
brave knight, Sir Agenor. Yes, on my soul! I 
have made other prisoners, and even of very illus- 
trious rank; but ” 

And a new hesitation showed Caverley’s irreso- 
lution. 

“ Their price shall be paid, captain,” said 
Mauleon, boiling with impatience. “Where are 
they? In this litter, doubtless.” 

Henry laid his hand on the young man’s arm, 
and gently held him back. 

“ Do you accept, Captain Caverley?” said he. 

“It is for me to reply, sir,” answered Don 
Pedro. 

“Oh! do not p.ay the master here, Don Pedro; 
for you are no longer king,” said Henry with dis- 
dain; “and wait till I speak to you before you 
reply.” 

Don Pedro smiled, and turning towards Cuver- 
ley, said — 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


117 


“ Explain to him, captain, that you can’t accept 
his offer.” 

Caverley passed his hand again over his visor, 
as if the iron had been his face, and drawing 
Age nor aside : 

“ My brave friend,” he said, “good companions 
like ourselves owe each other truth; do they 
not?” 

Age nor looked at him with astonishment. 

“Well!” continued the captain, “if you will 
believe me, the best thing you can do is to leave 
by the little door of the tent which is behind you, 
and if you have a good horse, to spur him on till 
he can hold no longer.” 

“ We are betrayed!” exclaimed Mauleon, sud- 
denly enlightened. “ To arm.s, prince, to arms!” 

Henry eyed Mauleon with astonishment, but 
instinctively grasped the hilt of his sword. 

Don Pedro, seeing that the drama was ap- 
proaching its conclusion, exclaimed, extending his 
hand with a commanding gesture: — “ Messire 
Hugh de Caverley, in the Prince of Wales’s name, 

I enjoin you to arrest Prince Henry of Transta- 
mara.” 

These words were scarcely finished, ere Henry 
had sword in hand; but Caverley opened bis visor, 
raised a horn to his lips, and at its sound twenty 
adventurers flung themselves upon the prince, who 
was instantly disarme4, 

“ ’Tis done,” said Caverley to Don Pedro. 

“ Now if you will believe me, sire, you had better 
retire; for blows will shower here very soon, I 
can answer for it.” 

“ How so?” asked the king. 

“ That Frenchman who has left by the little 
door wall not allow his prince to be taken, without 
striking off some arms or splitting some heads in 
his honour.” 

Don Pedro leant forward to the opening, and 
saw Agenor with his foot in the stirrup, doubtless 
to ride in search of succour. 

The king seized a cross-bow, fixed it, placed 
the bolt, and levelled at the knight. 

“David killed Goliah with a stone,” said he; 

“ it would be strange if Goliah could not kill 
David with a cross-bow.” 

“ A moment,” exclaimed Caverley, “ a moment, 
sire, in the devil’s name! You have only just come 
here, and you are about to upset every thing; and 
what would the constable say, if I allowed his 
friend to be killed?” 

And he raised the end of the cross-bow with 
his arm at the moment Don Pedro laid his finger 
on the trigger. The bolt went into the air. 

“ The constable!” said Don Pedro, stamping 
with his foot; “it was well worth while to make 
me lose my shot from such a fear as that. Stretch 
your nets, hunter, and take this huge wild boar in 
them too; our chase will then be finished at a 
blow, and on that condition I can grant you for- 
giveness.” 

“ You speak at your ease. Take tne constable!' 
mighty well! come and take the constable. Well, 1 
indeed!” he added, shrugging his shoulders, l 
“ w hat fine talkers these Spaniards are !” 

“ Messire Caverley.” 

“ I only speak the truth. Take the constable! — 

I am not of a curious disposition, sire, but on the 
word of a captain, I should witness such an ex- 
ploit with a great deal of interest.”* 

* It will not, I suppose, interfere with the interest of the 
romance to remind the reader of the difference between 
this and historical fact ; for none go to historical romances 
for an account of the facts of history, but at most for the 
, ipirit and what may be termed the physiognomy of the 


“ There is one already taken,” said Don Pedro 
pointing to Agenor, who -was brought in a pri- 
soner. 

At the moment he was riding off at full gallop, 
one of the adventurers had ham- strung his charger 
with a bill-hook, and the horse had fallen, throwing 
its rider undermost. 

So long as she had believed her lover far from the 
struggle and free from danger, Aissa had neither 
spoken or stirred. One might have said that the 
events passing around her, important as they were, 
in no wise interested her; but on the approach of 
Mauleon, disarmed and in the hands of his ene- 
mies, the curtains of the litter were seen to open, 
and through them appeared the young girl’s 
face, paler than the veil of white linen which en- 
wraps the women of the east. 

Agenor uttered a cry. Aissa sprung out of 
the litter and ran towards him. 

“ Oh! oh!” said Mothril, knitting his brow. 

“What does this mean?” asked the king. 

“ The explanation seems forthcoming,” mut- 
tered Caverley. 

Henry of Transtamara cast on Agenor a dark 
and mistrustful glance, which the latter perfectly 
understood. 

“You wish to speak,” said he to Aissa; “ do so 
quickly and aloud, madam, for from the moment 
that we are your prisoners, to that of our death, 
there will probably be not much time to lose, even 
for the most ardent lovers.” 

“ Our prisoners !” exclaimed Aissa ; “ oh ! it was 
not that which I wished, my great lord; verv tar 
otherwise.” 

Caverley’s demeanour became very embarrassed. 
That man of iron almost trembled at the accusa- 
tion which the two young lovers in his hands were 
about to bring against him. 

“My letter,” said Aissa, tos the young man; 
“ did you not receive my letter?” 

“ What letter?” asked Agenor. 

“Enough! enough!” said Mothril, all whose 
projects this scene was beginning to endanger. 
“Captain, the king orders you to lead Prince 
Henry of Transtamara to the king, Don Pedro’s 
apartment, and that young man to mine.” 

“ Caverley, you are a traitor!” roared Agenor, 
striving to get rid of the rude gauntlets which 
grasped his wrists. 

“I told you to mane your escape; you would 
not do so, or you escaped too late, which comes 
to the same thing,” answered the captain. “ By 
my faith, ’tis your own fault. And then why 
complain: you will lodge with her.” 

“ Let us make good speed, gentlemen,” said tne 
king, “and let a council be assembled this very 
night to judge this bastard who calls himself my bro- 
ther, and this rebel who pretends to be my king. 
Caverley, he had offered you two towns. I am 
more generous; I give you a province. Mothril, 
order my people to come up; we must, in an 

times, which they often give far more faithfully tban his- 
tory itself. Duguesclin was really ransomed from capthiv 
to lead this expedition. He was taken prisoner at the 
battle of Auray fought in 1364, between Charles de Bloi«, 
the French claimant of the dukedom of Brittany and Jean 
de Montfort, the claimant supported by England. Bertrai d 
Duguesclin, with a thousand men-at-arms, acted as an 
auxiliary to Charles, while John, Lord Chandos, with an 
English force, aided the strength of Montfort. The leader 
of the English rearguard was Sir Hugh de Calverley, wii>, 
however, appears to have little in common but the name 
with the character in this romance. Aharles de Blois wae 
defeated and killed, and I uguesclin fell into the hands <-f 
Chandos, from whom he was ransomed by Charles V for a 
hundred thousand golden crowns Notwithstanding this 
war in Brittany, France and England were at peace at il*e 
time.— Tban slato*. 


118 


TFTF TRON WANT); OR. THE RNTOTTT OR MAULFON. 


hours time be under shelter in some good 
castle.” 

Mothril bowed and went out; but he had not 
made ten steps beyond the tent, when he suddenly 
fell back, making that sign with the hand which, 
with every nation, enjoins silence. 

“ What is there now?” asked Caverley, wdth ill- 
disgnised anxiety. 

“ Speak, good Mothril/’ said Don Pedro. 

“ Listen,” said the Moor. 

All the senses of the assistants seemed to pass 
into their ears, and, for an instant, the tent of the 
English chief wore the appearance of an assembly 
(>f statues. 

“ Do you hear?” continued the Moor, stooping 
nearer and nearer to the earth. 

In fact, one might hear something resembling 
the sound of thunder, or the approaching gallop 
of a troop of horsemen. 

“ Notre Dame — Guesclin/* suddenly cried a 
firm and sonorous voice. 

“Ah! ah! the constable,” muttered Caverley, 
who recognised the war-cry of the stout Breton. 

“Ah! ah! the constable,” said Don Pedro, in 
his turn, knitting his brow. 

For though he had never yet heard it, he recog- 
nised the terrible cry. 

The prisoners, on their part, exchanged looks, 
and a smile of hope passed over their lips. 

Mothril drew near his daughter, and clasped 
her waist more closely in his arms. 

“ Sire ” said Caverley, with that bantering air 
which never left him, even in the moment of 
daiiger, “you wished to take the wild boar; he is 
coming to spare you the trouble.” 

Don Pedro made a sign to the men-at-arms, 
who drew up close behind him. Caverley, deter- 
mined on remaining neuter between his former 
companion and his new leader, withdrew to a dis- 
tance. 

A new rank of guards came to treble the iron 
circle which held the prince and Mauleon. 

“ What are you doing, Caverley?” asked Don 
Pedro. 

“ I give place to you as to my king and leader, 
sire/' answered the captain. 

“ ? Tis well,” said Don Pedro; “ then let me be 
obeyed.” 

Tiie horses stopped; the clash of iron was heard, 
and the noise of a man laden with the weight of 
armour, jumping to the ground. 

Almost immediately afterwards Bertrand Du- 
gueselin entered the tent. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

THE WILD BOAR TAKEN IN THE NET. 
Behind the constable came, with a cunning eye 
and a smile on his lips, the honest Musaron, 
covered from head to foot with dust. 

He seemed to have come to give the explanation 
to those present of this surprising arrival of the 
constable. 

Bertrand raised his visor on coming in, and ran 
through the assembly with a single look. 

On perceiving Don Pedro, he bowed slightly; 
on discovering Henry of Transtamara, he gave a 
respect Mil salute; then going to Caverley, he took 
his hand. 

“ Good day, sir captain,” he calmly said; “ it ap- 
pear* we have made a good capture! Ah, Messire 
d Mauleon, you will excuse me, I had not observed 
you / 5 


Those words, which appeared to betray so toted 
an ignorance of the state of the case, struck the 
majority of those present with astonishment. 

But Bertrand, far from being disconcerted at 
this almost solemn silence, continued: 

“ I farther hope, Captain Caverley, that all the 
attention due to his rank and his misfortunes have 
been paid the prisoner?” 

Henry was about to rejoin, but Don Pedro spoke 
first : 

“Yes, seigneur connetable, be re-assured; we 
have had for the prisoner all that respect which 
the right of nations enjoins ” 

“You have had,” said Bertrand, with an ex- 
pression of surprise, which would have done 
honour to the most skilful comedian; “you have 
had ! How can you say that, may it please your 
highness?” 

“ Yes, messire connetable,” resumed Don Pedro 
with a snrle, “ I repeat it, we have had .' 5 

Bertrand looked at Caverley, who remained im- 
passible under his steel armour. 

“ I do not understand,” said he. 

“ My dear constable, ’ said Henry, rising with 
difficulty from his seat (for he had been bruised 
and bound by the soldiers, and in the struggle 
many of them, cuirassed men, had half-stifled him 
in their iron arms), “dear constable, the a sassin 
of Don Frederick is right, it is he who is our 
master, and we who, through treason, have become 
his prisoners.” 

“Hum!” sad Bertrand, turning round with a 
look of such menace that more than one face in 
the assembly grew pale. “ Treason, say you, 
and where, then, is the traitor?” 

“ My lord constable,” replied Caverley, stepping 
forward, “ it appears to me that the word treason 
is inappropriate, and that you should rather have 
said fidelity.” 

“Fidelity!” repeated the constable, whose as- 
tonishment seemed to increase. 

“ Doubtless, fidelity,” continued Caverley, “for 
after all, we are English,* are we not? and conse- 
quently subject to the orders of the Prince of 
Wales.” 

“ Well, and what then?” said Bertrand, expand- 
ing his broad shouldqrs, as if to draw breath, and 
letting his heavy iron mailed hand fall on the hilt 
of his sword — “ Who denies, my dear Caverley, 
that you are subject to the Prince of Wales?” 

“ Then, my lord, you must admit, for no one 
knows better than yourself the rules of discipline, 
that it was my duty to obey my prince’s 
orders.” 

“ And those orders are here,” said Don Pedro, 
extending his parchment towards Bertrand. 

“ I don’t know how to read,” said t’ constable 
gruffly. 

* As I have previously remarked, \I. A. Dumas avails 
himself of the license of romance in Ills treatment of his - 
tory It is not more, indeed, than has been done by many 
other writers, less than by some writing for the express pur- 
pose of instruction, not amusement It was not until after 
Don Pedro had been dethroned by Henry de Transtamara 
at the head of the companies under the command of Du- 
guesclin and bj the revolt of his own subjects, that he 
sought the protection of the Prince of Wales. Those leaders 
of the companies who owed allegiance to England had been 
dissuaded by Edward from embarking on the enterprise, but 
they paid him no attention. After Pedro, however, had 
sought refuge at Bordeaux, and Edward had determined to 
support him, he recalled all tne English and Gascon adven- 
turers from Henr>’s service to his own, and this call they 
obeyed In a romance, however, to enlarge the canvass so 
as to admit three successive invasions of Spain, would 
clearly have been all bvt impracticable, and unless his orioal 
romance were prohibiten, some liberty must be given to the 
novelist to modify events for tub purpose. - Translator, 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE ENTGHT OF MATJLF.ON. 


119 


Don Pedro drew back his parchment; and 
Caveriey, brave as be was, trembled. 

“ Well,” continued Duguesclin: “I think I now 
understand. The king, Don Pedro, had been 
taken by Captain Caveriey. He has shown the 
safe conduct of the Prince of Wales, and the 
captain has forthwith restored Don Pedro to 
liberty.” 

“ t Tust so,” exclaimed Caveriey, who hoped that 
in his extreme good faith, Duguesclin would ap- 
prove of all that had been done. 

“ Nothing better, so far,”’ continued the con- 
stable. 

Caveriey breathed more freely. 

“ But,” resumed Bertrand, “ there is still a 
matter which to me remains in obscurity.” 

“ What is it?” asked Don Pedro, haughtily. 

“ Make haste, Messire Bertrand, for your in- 
quiries become tiresome?” 

“ I shall conclude,” replied the constable, with 
his terrible sang -froid. “ But where is the need 
that Captain Caveriey, to deliver Don Pedro, should 
make Don Henry a prisoner?” 

At these words, and at the attitude which Ber- 
trand Duguesclin took as he pronounced them, 
Mothril judged that the moment had come for 
calling a reinforcement of Moors and Englishmen 
to Don Pedro’s assistance. 

Bertrand moved not a muscle of his countenance, 
and appeared even not to perceive the manoeuvre. 
His voice, if possible, became calmer and colder 
than before. 

“ I await a reply,” said he. 

It was Don Pedro who gave it. * 

“ I am astonished,” said he, “ that the French 
knights should be so ignorant as not to know that 
there is a double profit in making a friend, at the 
same time as we get rid of an enemy.” 

“Are you of that opinion, master Caveriey?” 
asked Bertrand, fixing on the captain a look, the 
serenity of which was at once a testimony of 
strength, and a gaze of defiance. 

“ Needs must, messire,” answered the captain. 
“ I must obey orders.” 

“ Well, for my part,” said Bertrand, “ I, on the 
Other hand, command, I order you, then, mark me 
well, to set at liberty his Highness Prince Henry 
of Transtamara, whom I see there guarded by 
your soldiers; and as I am more courteous than 
you, I will not require that you should arrest Don 
Pedro, although I have the right to do so, since you 
have my money in your pocket, and that as I pay 
you, I am your master.” 

Caveriey made a movement; Don Pedro 
stretched out his arm. 

“Make no reply, captain,” said he; “there is 
here only one master, and that master is myself. 
You will therefore obey me, and that on the spot, 
if you please. Bastard Don Henry, Messire Ber- 
trand, and you, Count de Mauleon, I declare you 
all three my prisoners.” 

At these terrible words, all became silent in the 
tent. Amidst this silence, six men-at-arms, on a 
gesture from Don Pedro, broke from the rest, to 
secure the person of Duguesclin, as had been 
already done with that of Don Henry ; but the good 
knight, with a blow of his fist, that fist with which 
he could drive in armour, felled the first who came 
forward, and then with his powerful voice thunder- 
ing out his cry of Notre Dame - Guesclin, so that 
it resounded afar throughout the plain, he drew 
his sword. 

In an instant the tent exhibited a scene of ter- 
rible confusion. Agenor, who was ill guarded, 
had with a single effort shaken off the two soldiers 


placed to watch him, and had come to join Dugue.se- 
lin; Henry was cutting with his teeth the last cord 
which bound his wrists. Mothril, Den Pedro, and 
the Moors presented a threatening attitude. 

AYssa passed her head through the curtains of 
her litter, crying out, forgetful of all, save her 
lover, 

“Courage! my great lord! courage!” 

Lastly, Caveriey had withdrawn, taking his 
English with him, so as ter preserve neutrality as 
long as possible; only to be ready for all events, 
he had the call to saddle sounded. 

The combat was engaged. Arrow r s, crossbolts, 
leaden balls hurled by the sling, began to hurtle 
through the air and rain on the three knights, 
when suddenly a tremendous clamour arose 
and a troop of men-at-arms entered the tent on 
horseback, cutting down, driving and crushing all 
before them, and raising such clouds of dust as 
overwhelmed the most furious combatants, 

By their cries “ Guesclin ! Guesclin !” it was 
easy to recognise the Bretons commanded by the 
Begue de Vilaines, Bertrand’s inseparable friend, 
and posted by him at the barriers with injunctions 
to charge only when he should hear the cry of 
“ Notre Dame— Guesclin!” 

There was an instant of strange confusion in this 
ripped-up and overthrown tent, an instant during 
which friends and enemies were m xed, confounded 
and blinded; then this dust was dispersed, and as 
the first rays of the sun rose over the mountains of 
Castile, the Bretons were seen masters of the field 
of battle. Don Pedro, Mothril, A'issa. the Moors 
had disappeared like a vision. Some struck by 
maces and swords, remained on \ he ground, writhiug 
in their blood, as if to prove that it was not merely 
an army of fleeting phantoms they had to deal 
with. 

Agenor at once recognised their disappearance; 
he jumped on the first horse that came to hand, 
and without perceiving that the animal was 
wounded, galloped to the nearest eminence, whence 
he could command the plain. When he reached 
it, he saw afar off, five Arab horses entering the 
wood, and through the blue atmosphere of the 
morning, caught a glimpse of A'issa’s woollen robe 
and floating veil. Without caring whether he was 
followed, and moved by a senseless hope, he urged 
his horse in pursuit; but ere ten paces were com- 
pleted, the horse sank to rise no longer. 

The young man returned to the litter, it was 
empty, he only found there a bunch of roses still 
damp with tears. 

At the extremity of the lines all the English 
cavalry awaited in good order for Caverley’s signal 
to action. The captain had disposed his men so 
skilfully that they enclosed the Bretons in a circle. 

Bertrand saw at a glance that the object of this 
manoeuvre was to cut off his retreat. 

Caveriey came forward. 

“ Messire Bertrand,” said he, “ to prove to you 
that we are trusty comrades, we are about to open 
our ranks that you may regain your quarters. 
That will show you that the English are true to 
their word, and that they respect the chivalry cf 
the French king.” 

Meanwhile Bertrand, as silent and calm as if 

lothing extraordinary was occurring, had mounted 
his horse, and taken his lance from his squire's 
hand. 

He looked round him and saw that Agenor had 
done the same. 

All his Bretons remained behind him in good 
order and ready for the charge. 

“ Sir Englishman,” said he, “ you are a rogu*, 


120 


TFIE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


and, had I the power, I would have you hung on 
the ''iiesnut-tree hard-by.” 

‘‘Ah, ah! messire connetable,” said Caverley, 
“ have a care. You will force me to make you a 
prisoner in the Prince of Wales’s name.’’ 

“ Bah !” said Duguesclin. 

Caverley understood the threat implied in the 
taunting interjection of the constable, and turning 
towards his soldiers. 

“ Close your ranks,” cried he to his men, who 
drew together, and offered to the Bretons a wall 
of iron. 

“ My children,’’ said Bertrand to his brave 
fellows, “our breakfast time is near; our tents are 
in that quarter; let us return home.” 

And he spurred his horse with such a will, that 
Caverley had barely time to get aside and avoid 
the iron hurricane which passed by him. 

In fact, after Bertrand rushed on with equal 
vigour, the Bretons, led by Agenor, Henry de 
Transtamara, almost in spite of himself, had 
been placed in the centre of the little troop. 

At this time one man by knowledge of arms 
and personal strength might be a match for 
twenty. Bertrand pointed his lance so as to over- 
throw the Englishman in his front. This first 
opening being effected, a loud tumult was heard of 
broken lances, cries of the wounded, heavy blows 
struck by iron maces, and the neighings of horses 
crushed by the shock. 

When Caverley turned round he saw a large 
and bloody opening; then five hundred paces 
further, the Bretons galloping in as good order, as 
if they had crossed only a field of standing 
corn. 4 

“ I had, however quite resolved,” he muttered, 
shaking his head, “ not to adventure myself against 
those brutes. Boasts and boasters may go to 
the devil! I lose in this piece of business twelve 
horses and four men, without counting, unlucky 
dog that I am, a king’s ransom. Let us decamp, 
gentlemen. From this day forth we are Castilians. 
Let us change our banner.” 

And the adventurer, that very day, raised 
his camp, and began his march to rejoin Don 
Pedro. 

* To represent a troop* of Breton horsemen riding over 
an army of English, as they would over a field of standing 
corn, to give themselves an appetite for breakfast, is surely 
paying to > great a tribute to the national vanity of some 
silly readers. The Breton military character was, however, 
high at that time, which the French was not, but it was not 
so high as the English. In 1360, Edward III., landing at 
Calais, marched through all the northern provinces of 
France up to the gates of Paris, thence into Champagne 
and Burgundy, and from Burgundy along the course of the 
Loire into Poitou, without any French army taking the 
field against him during his progress. It is curious to see 
how, with the growth of England’s commercial and maritime 
dominion, its military power has decreased. The largest 
forc-s brought to act in a body on the continent during 
the l.ist war, little exceeded the contingents furnished by 
Westphalia, Bavaria, or other fifth-rate German powers to 
the armies of Napoleon- or the allies. The very idea of 
making any head singly against th • military power of France 
on the continent would be looked upon and justly, consi- 
dering present circumstances, as a sort of insanity ; and, 
more than that, few hut the very sanguine can donbt that 
with the present military defences of England, a very mo- 
derate French army, only once across the channel, might 
traverse and lay waste the country almost as effectually as 
William the Norman after Hastings. The English laugh 
at the supineness of individuals who neglect their personal 
interests, but they do i ot appear 1o perceive that a great 
nation, neglecting ordinary precautions of safety, is quite 
assupine and infinitely more culpable. — T ranslator 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE POLICY OF MESSIRE BERTRAND DUGUESCLIN, 

It was already many hours since the Bretons and 
Prince Henry of Transtamara had been in safety 
with Mauleon, and it was already long since 
Agenor had, in the windings of the mountain, 
lost sight of that whi„e point flying through the 
plain, which now glittered in the rays of the sun, 
and which was nothing else than the vanishing 
disappearance of all his love, all his joy, and all 
his hope. 

Ii was a somewhat varied spectacle which was 
presented by the attitude of the different per- 
sonages of this history, for chance seemed to 
take pleasure in grouping them all together 
within the frame of the magnificent landscape on 
which Agenor was gazing. 

The little band of fugitives had now re-appeared 
on one of the slopes of the mountain which it 
had gained by a flight, which that of an eagle 
could scarcely have outstripped in swiftness. 
Three things might be distinctly percei ved : Mothril’s 
red mantle, Aissa’s white veil, and the luminous 
point, which the sun caused to glitter on the steel 
helmet of Don Pedro. 

In the interval between the foreground and 
the distance, the troop of Caverley re-formed in 
order of battle, was following the road to the 
mountain. The first horsemen were disappearing 
in the woods which lay extended at its base. 

In the foreground, Henry of Transtamara, 
leaning against a gigantic tuft of broom, al- 
lowed his horse to wander on the meadow, look- 
ing from time to time at his wrists, still reddened 
by the pressure of the cords. These vestiges of 
the frightful scene which had just passed in Caver- 
ley’s tent, alone reminded him that two hours pre- 
viously Don Pedro was in his power, and that for- 
tune had only smiled on him for an instant to 
precipitate him almost immediately from the sum- 
mit of a premature prosperity, to the lowest 
depths, perhaps, of the dark abyss of uncertainty 
and impotency. 

Near Henry, some Bretons, worn out with 
fatigue, had lain down on the grass. These brave 
knights, obedient machines, raised by the order of 
nature alone above the beast of burden, or the 
shepherd’s dog, uid not take the trouble of reflect- 
ing after acting. Only, as they had remarked 
that ten paces off, Bertrand was reflecting for 
them, they had drawn their mantles over their 
faces to keep off the sun, and had gone to sleep. 

The Begue de Vilaines and Olivier de Manny 
did not sleep; they were looking, on the contrary, 
with the most intense and prolonged attention at 
the English, whose advanced guard, as we have 
already said, was disappearing in the wood, while 
the rear guard was occupied in pulling down the 
tents, and in packing them on mules’ backs. In 
the midst of the workers, Caverley might be seen 
crossing like an armed phantom the ranks of his 
soldiers, and watching over the execution of the 
orders he had given. 

Thus, all these men, scattered through one vast 
landscape, and flying some to the south, some to 
the west, some to the east, and some to the north, 
like frightened ants, were yet all united by one 
sentiment, and God, who alone understood them, 
as he looked on them from the height of heaven, 
might say that in each of those hearts, with the 
exception of the heart of Aissa, the sentiment 
which prevailed over all others, was that of 
vengeance. 


THE IRON \HANR; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


121 



But Mothril, Don Pedro, and ATssa were soon I 
lost again in a turning of the mountain; the 
English rear-guard was soon again on the march, 
and plunged into the wood, so that Mauleon, no 
longer seeing A’issa; and the Begue de Vilaines 
and Olivier de Mauny, no longer seeing Caverley, 
came near to Bertrand, who had shaken off his 
reverie to approach Henry, still buried in his 
own. 

Bertrand gave them a smile; then rising up, 
which from the iron joints of his armour was a 
matter of some difficulty, from the little knoll on 
which he w r as*seated, he walked straight to Prince 
Henry, who was still leaning against his tuft of 
broom. 

The noise of his steps,* rendered weighty by 

* How can the no»Vof any man’s steps shake thp "round, 
or &ny thing else? Weight would be the proper phrase. 


his armour, shook the ground, and yet Henry did 
not turn round. 

Bertrand continued to advance until his shadow 
interposing between the prince and the sun. took 
from the melancholy nobleman that sweet conso- 
lation of the warmth of heaven which, like life, 
is never so precious, as when one is losing it. 

Henry raised his head to claim the restoration 
of his sun, and saw the good constable leaning on 
his sword, his visor half raised, and his eye beam- 
ing with an encouraging compassion. 

“Ah! constable,” said the prince, shaking his 
head, “ wffiat a day !” 

“Bah! my lord,” answered Bertrand, “I have 
seen worse.” 

The prince only replied by an accusing look to 
heaven. 

“ 1’faithP’ continued Bertrand. “There is hoi 
one thing that I can remember, that we might 



122 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAUEEON. 


have been prisoners, and that on the contrary we 
are tree.” 

“ Ah ! constable, do you not see that everything 
escapes us?” 

“ What mean you by everything?” 

“ The King of Castile ! by St. J ames ! ” ex- 
claimed Don Henry, with a gesture of rage and 
menace, which made the knights drawn to the 
spot by the resounding voice of the prince, and 
who, while they listened, could not forget that 
this abhorred enemy was a brother, shudder 
as they beheld it. 

Bertrand had not come up to the prince with 
the mere object of lessening the distance which 
separated them: he had something to tell him; 
he had, in fact, surprised on the faces of all, an 
expression of fatigue which somewhat resembled 
a beginning of discouragement. 

He made a sign to the prince to sit down. The 
latter understood that Bertrand was about to 
begin some important conversation : he lay down, 
and amidst all these faces, expressing, discourage- 
ment, as we have already said, his own was not 
the least expressive. 

Bertrand bent forward leaning his hands on the 
pummel of his sword. 

“ Forgive me, my lord,” said he, “ if I distract 
your thoughts from the road they were following; 
but there is a point on which I desire to come to 
an understanding with you.” 

“ What is it, my dear constable?” asked Henry, 
somewhat disturbed at this preamble, for to ac- 
complish the gigantic undertaking of his usurpa- 
tion he could only rely on the trustiness of the 
Bretons, and there are some minds which in mat- 
ters of that nature, cannot have a very vigorous 
faith. 

“ You have just said, my lord, that the King of 
Castile had escaped.” 

^ “ Without doubt, 1 have said so.” 

“Well, that contains an ambiguity, my lord, 
and 1 advise you to relieve your faithful servants 
from the doubt in which your words have plunged 
them. There is, then, besides yourself another 
King of Castile?” 

Henry raised his head like a bull who has felt 
the picador’s lance. 

“ Explain yourself, my dear constable,” he 
replied. 

“ ’Tis easy. If you and I know not what to 
think on that subject, you will readily understand 
that my Bretons and your Castilians will be still 
more perplexed, and that the remaining popula- 
tion of Spain, still less informed on the subject, 
will never know v/hether they ought to cry, 
‘ God save King Henry! or God save King 
J’edro.”’ 

Henry listened, but without yet perceiving what 
the constable was aiming at. But as the reason- 
ing appeared to him very conclusive, he gave an 
approving nod with his head. 

“ Well, then?” said he. 

“ Well, then.” pursued Dugueselin, ** if there are 
two kings, which produces confusion, let us begin 
by dethroning one of them.” 

* But it seems to me that we are making war for 
that very purpose, sir constable,” answered Henry. 

“ Very well; but as yet we have not gained one 
of th^se decisive battles which at one blow hurls a 
king from his throne; and while we await that 
day, which is to decide the fate of Castile, it seems 
tiiat you do not yet know whether or not you are 
king.” 

“It matters not, if I wish to become so.” 

44 Then be so.” 


“ But, my dear constable, am I not already in 
your eyes the true and only monarch?” 

“ That is not enough ; you must be so, for all 
the world.” 

“ That, messire, appears to me impossible, before 
the gain of a battle, the adhesion of an army, or 
the capture of some important town.” 

“ Well! that, my prince, is what I have thought 
on !” 

“ You!” 

“ Doubtless. I ! Do you imagine that, because 
I can fight, I am unable to think? Undeceive 
yourself. I am not always fighting, and some- 
times I think. You say that you must await the 
gain ot a battle, the acclamation of an army, or 
the capture of an important town?” 

“ Yes, or one of those things at least.” 

“ Well ! let us have one of them forthwith.” 

“ That appears to me difficult, sir constable, if 
not impossible.” 

“ Why so, sire?” 

“ Because I fear.” 

“ Ah! if you fear, I, my prince, fear nothing,” 
replied the constable, with animation; “ if you will 
not do it, I w ill.” 

“ We shall fall from too great a height, sir con- 
stable ; so great that we shall not be able to rise 
again.” 

“ Unless, prince, you fall into your grave, you 
will always be able to rise again, so long as you 
have four Breton knights to stand by you, and 
that glittering Castilian sword at your side. Be 
resolved, sire, I beg.” 

“ Oh! be assured, sir constable, that I shall not 
be wanting when the occasion comes,” answered 
Henry, whose eyes grew brighter at the contem- 
plation of a nearer fulfilment to his dream. “ But 
as yet I see neither the battle nor the army 

“ No, but you see the town.” 

Henry looked round him. 

“Where are the kings of this country crowned, 
my prince?” asked Dugueselin. 

“At Burgos.” --.iaea 

“ Then, though my geographical knowledge be 
slender, I believe that we are now in the neigh- 
bourhood of Burgos.” 

“ No doubt; it is at most twenty or twenty -five 
leagues from here.” 

“ Then, let us have Burgos.” 

“ Burgos ! ” repeated Henry. 

“ No doubt, Burgos. And if you desire to 
possess it, 1 will give it you as sure as my name’s 
Dugueselin.” 

“A town of such strength, sir constable,” 
answered Henr}% shaking his head doubtingly; 
“a capital town! — a town in which, besides the 
nobility, we find a powerful body of burghers, 
composed of Christians, Jew\s, and Mahometans, 
all divided in ordinary times, but all friends when 
the defence of their privileges is concerned. Burg< s, 
the key, in a wArd, of Castile, and which has been 
chosen as an impregnable sanctuary by those who 
have deposited there the crown and the royal 
insignia!” 

“ It is there, your highness, that w^e will go, if 
you please,” said Dugueselin, quietly. 

“ My friend,” said the prince, “ do not allow 
yourself to be carried away by a sentiment of 
affection, by an overstrained devotion. Let us 
consult our strength.” 

“To horse! sire,” said Bertrand, seizing the 
bridle of the prince’s horse, which was straying 
among the broom; “ to horse, and let us march 
straight on Burgos.” 

And on a sign from the constable, a Brek® 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTOTIT OF MAULEON. 


123 


trumpet gave the signal. The sleepers were the 
first in the saddle, and Bertrand, who looked on 
bis Bretons with the attention of a chief, and the 
affection of a father, remarked that most of them, 
instead of surrounding the prince, as was their 
custom, preferred uniting round the constable, 
recognising him as their true and only leader. 

“ It was time,” muttered the constable leaning 
towards Agenor’s ear. 

“Time for what?” asked he, trembling like a 
man awaked from a dream. 

“Time to refresh the activity of our soldiers.” 

“There’s no harm in it, truly, constable,” re- 
plied the young man; “ for it is hard for men to 
go the} know not where, to fight for they know 
not whom.” 

Bertrand smiled; Agenor gave him back his 
own thought, and thus showed him to be in the 
right. 

“ It is not for yourself that you speak, I sup- 
pose?” asked Bertrand; “ for I think I have always 
seen you the first, whether in march or battle, for 
the honour of our country.’’ 

“ Oh ! for qiy part, messire, I only ask to fight, 
or, above all, to march, and none will ever go 
quick enough for me.” 

And as he thus spoke, Agenor rose on his stir- 
rups as if he wished to look over the mountains 
which skirted the horizon. 

Bertrand made no reply; he had well judged 
his men. But he consulted a guard, who assured 
him that the shortest road to Burgos was to go 
first to Calahorra, a little town scarcely six leagues 
distant. 

“ Let us go, then, quickly, to Calahorra,” said 
the constable. 

And he spurred his horse, thus setting an 
example of haste. 

Behind him broke forward, with a formidable 
clatter, the iron squadron, in the centre ojrwhich 
was Henry of Transtamara. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE MESSENGER. 

It was towards the end of the second day’s 
march that the little town of Calahorra ap- 
peared in sight to the troop commanded by Henry 
of Transtamara and Bertrand Duguesclin. This 
body of men, which during its two days’ march 
had been strengthened by all the little detach- 
ments scattered in the environs, might amount to 
about ten thousand men. 

The attempt which was about to be made on 
Calahorra, the advanced sentinel of Burgos, was 
one of a decisive character. In fact, from this 
starting point, which would afford a test of the 
sentiments of old Castile, depended the success or 
failure of the enterprise. If stopped before Cala- 
horra, Don Henry’s march would become a war; 
if Calahorra were passed through without resist- 
ance, Henry would advance on a career of 
triumph. 

The army further was very well disposed; the 
general opinion was that Don Pedro had gone to 
rejoin oi' the other side of the mountains, a body 
of Arragonese* and Moorish troops, of whom intel- 
ligence had been received. 

The gates of the town were shut, the soldiers 
who guarded them, were at their posts; the sen- 
tinels, cross-bow on shoulder, went their rounds 

* This not conformable to history, as Peter the Cere- 
monious, King of Arrasron. was the ally of Henry, in his 
attempt on the throne of Castile. — Translator. 


on the wall; all was in a state, if not of menace, 
at least of defence. 

Duguesclin led his little army to within a bow- 
shot from the ramparts. There by sound of 
trumpet, he rallied the army round their colours, 
and pronounced, a discourse, full of the assurance 
of his country, and of the address of a man reared 
in the court of Charles V., which he concluded by 
proclaiming Henry of Transtamara king of the 
two C as tiles, of Seville, and of Leon; instead of 
Don Pedro, an unworthy knight, and a sacrile- 
gious murderer. 

These solemn words which Bertrand gave out 
with the full strength of his lungs, made ten 
thousand swords leap from the scabbard, and 
under the most beautiful of skies, at the hour, 
when the sun was about to sink behind the moun- 
tains of Navarre, Calahorra, from the height of 
its ramparts, might witness the imposing spectacle 
of the fall and resurrection of a throne. 

Bertrand, after having spoken himself and 
allowed the army to speak, turned to the town to 
ask its opinion. 

The burghers of Calahorra, however closed in, 
however well provided with arms and provisions, 
did not long remain in doubt. 

The constable’s attitude was full of meaning. 
That of his men-at-arms, with their raised lances, 
was not less so. They probably reflected that 
the very weight of that cavalry might suffice to 
overthrow their wall, and that it was better to 
ward off that misfortune by opening their gates. 
They therefore replied to the acclamations of the 
army, by an enthusiastic shout of “Long live 
Don Henry of Transtamara, King of Castile, cf 
Seville, and of Leon.” 

These shouts, the first uttered in the Castilian 
language, deeply moved Don Henry; he raised 
the visor of his helmet, and advanced unattended 
to the walls. 

“ Say ‘ God save the good King Henry,’ ” he 
cried, “ for I shall be so good to Calahorra as to 
make her always remember, that she was the first 
to hail me. as King of the Castiles.’’ 

It was now no longer enthusiasm, but frenzy; 
the gates opened as if a fairy had touched them 
with her wand, and a compact mass of citizens, 
women, and children, rushed out of the town, and 
mixed with the royal forces. 

In an hour, one of those splendid fetes w r as or- 
ganised, of which nature furnishes the material; 
all the flowers, wine, and honey of that rich 
country; psalteries, dulcimers, women’s voices, 
wax candles, the sound of bells, the chaunting of 
priests, regaled the new king and his companions 
during the entire night. 

In the meantime Bertrand had assembled his 
council of Breton officers, and was saying to 
them, — 

“Prince Don Henry, of Transtamara, is now a 
proclaimed, though not yet an anointed king; 
you are tio longer the supporters of an adven- 
turer but of a prince who possesses lands, fiefs, 
and titles. I would wager that Caverley will 
regret that he is no longer with us.” 

Then amidst the attention which was always 
granted to him, not only as a leader, but also as 
a warrior no less prudent than brave, and as brave 
as he was experienced, he laid before his auditors 
all his system; that is, all his hopes, which Soon 
became theirs also. 

He was concluding his discourse, when it? as 
announced that the prince was waiting for him as 
well as for the Breton chiefs, and that he was wait- 
ing for his faithful allies in the palace of the govcr- 


124 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


nor of Calahorra, placed by that officer at the 
new sovereign’s disposal. 

Bertrand immediately complied with the invita- 
tion. Henry was already seated on a throne, and 
a golden circlet, the badge of royalty, adorned the 
crest of his helmet. 

Messire Connetable,” said the prince, holding 
out his hand to Duguesclin, “ you have made me 
king, I make you a count; you give me an em- 
pire, I offer you a domain; thanks to you, I am 
entitled Henry of Transtamara, King of Cas- 
tile, of Seville, and of Leon; you, thanks to me, 
are called Bertrand Duguesclin, Constable of 
France and Count of Borgia.” 

Immediately, three rounds of cheers from chiefs 
and soldiers proved to the king that he had per- 
formed an act not only of gratitude but of justice. 

“ As to you, noble captains, 5 ’ continued the 
king. “ my presents will not reach the amount of 
your deserts, but your conquests, aggrandising my 
states and augmenting my wealth, will render you 
richer and more powerful .’ 5 

In the meantime, lie distributed among them 
his gold and silver plate, the trappings of his 
horses, and all the valuables contained in the 
palace of Calahorra; then he nominated governor 
of the province, the officer who had previously 
been only governor of the town. 

Afterwards coming forward on the balcony, he 
divided among the soldiers eighty thousand golden 
crowns, which he had remaining. Then showing 
them his empty coffers: 

“ I commend them to your attention,” said he, 

* for we will fill them at Burgos.” 

“At Burgos!” exclaimed soldiers and captains. 
“At Burgos!” repeated the inhabitants, to 
whom this one night, passed in feasting, drinking, 
and embraces, was already" a sufficient proof of 
fraternity— a proof which prudence warned them 
not to allow to degenerate into an abuse. 

The day had now broken; the army was ready 
for march; the royal banner was already unfurled 
over the pennons of the several Castilian and 
Bieton companies, when a loud noise was heard at 
the chief gate of Calahorra, and the exclamations 
of the people approaching the centre of the town, 
indicated that an important occurrence was taking 
place. 

This was the arrival of a messenger. 

Bertrand smiled. Henry rose up, beaming with 
satisfaction. 

“ Make room for him,” said the Ling. 

The crowd drew back. 

Then, on an Arab horse with foaming nostrils 
and floating mane, restively pawing with limbs 
'Hider as blades of steel, there appeared a man of 
swarthy complexion enveloped in a white bur- 
nous. 

“ Where is the Prince Don Henry ?’ 5 he asked. 
“You mean the king?” said Duguesclin. 

“ I know no other king than Don Pedro,” re- 
plied the Arab. 

*' This man, at least, does not turn his coat,” 
muttered the constable. 

“ 5 Tis well!” said the prince; “let us cut the 
matter short. I am he to whom you wish to speak .’ 5 
The messenger bowed without alighting from his 
orse. 

“ Where do you come from ?’ 5 asked Don Henry. 

“ From Burgos. 5 ’ 

“ On whose behalf?” 

“ On behalf of the king, Don Pedro . 55 
“ Don Pedro is at Burgos !” exclaimed Henry, 

“ Yes, my lord,” replied the messenger. 

Henry and Bertrand exchanged a look. 


“And what are the wishes of Don Pedro?” 
asked the prince. 

“ For peace!” said the Arab. 

“Oh! oh!” said Bertrand, in whom honesty 
spoke with a prompter and louder voice than self- 
interest, “ that is good news.” 

Henry knit his brows. 

Agenor trembled with delight; peace was the 
liberty of running after A'issa, and the liberty of 
reaching her. 

“ And this peace , 55 resumed Henry with a 
sharp voice, “ on what conditions will it be 
granted?” 

“Answer, my lord, that you, as well as our- 
selves desire it , 55 answered the envoy, “ and 
the king, my master, will make the conditions 
easy.” 

But in the meantime, Bertrand had reflected on 
the mission which he had received from King 
Charles V.; — a mission of vengeance with regard 
to Don Pedro, and of destruction with regard to 
the great companies. 

“ You cannot accept peace,” said he to Henry, 

“ before having united on your side, a sufficient 
number of advantages to make the conditions 
good.” 

“I thought so; but I waited for your concur- 
rence, 5 ’ Henry replied with eagerness, for he 
trembled at the idea of sharing that which he 
wished entirely to possess. 

“ What is the prince’s reply !” asked the mes- 
senger. 

“Reply for me, Count de Borgia,” said the 
king. 

“ I will do so, sire,” said Bertrand with a bow. 
Then turning towards the messenger, 

“ Sir Herald,” said he, “return to your master 
and tell him that we will treat for peace when we 
are at Burgos.” 

“ At Burgos!” exclaimed the envoy with a tone 
more of alarm than surprise. 

“ Yes, at Burgos. 5 ’ 

“ In that town of which Don Pedro and his 
army hold possession?” * 

“ Precisely so,” said the constable. 

“ Is that your answer, my lord*' said the herald 
turning to Henry of Transtamara. 

The prince gave an affirmative nod. 

“Then may God preserve you !’ 5 replied the 
envoy, shrouding his head with his mantle. 

Bowing to the prince before starting, as he had 
done on his arrival, he turned his horse’s head j 
and went off at a walk, traversing the crowd, n 
w r hich, deceived in its expectations, remained 
mute and motionless on his passage. 

“ Go quicker, sir messenger,” cried Bertrand, if 
you do not wish us to get there before you.” 

But the horseman, without turning his head, or 
appearing to perceive that these words were 
addressed to him, gradually brought his horse 
from a quiet to a brisker pace, and then to so 
rapid a gallop, that he was outj of sight of the 
ramparts by the time the Breton advanced guard 
left the gates of Calahorra on the march to I 
Burgos. 

There are some rumours which fly through the 
air like atoms driven by the wind ; they are like 
a breath, a scent, or a ray of light. Like light- I 
ning they strike, warn, and dazzle from afar. 
None can explain the phenomem n of an event J 
being guessed at at the time of its occurrence, m 
though passing at twenty leagues 5 distance; yet I 
the fact which we mention is one of ascertained I 
certainty. One day, perhaps, science having I 
fathomed this problem, will no longer deign to I 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


125 


explain it; and it will then treat as an axiom what 
we now term a mystery of human organization. 

So was it, that on the very evening that Henry 
entered Calahorra, side by side with the con- 
stable, the news of his proclamation's king of 
the Castiles, of Seville, and of Leon,^ame down 
to Burgos, where Don Pedro had arrived a quarter 
of an hour before. 

What eagle passing through the sky had 
dropped it from his talons? None could say; 
but in a few instants, all were convinced of the fact. 
Don Pedro alone doubted. Mothril brought him 
round to the general opinion, by saying: — 

“ It is to be feared that this has taken place. 
It is likely that it should take place; and there- 
fore so it is.” 

“ But,” said Don Pedro, “ even supposing that 
this bastard has entered Calahorra, it is not 
probable that he has been proclaimed king.” 

“ If he was not so proclaimed yesterday,” said 
Mothril, “ he certainly will be to-day.” 

“ Then let us march straight on him, and make 
war,” said Don Pedro. 

“No; let us remain where we are, and make 
peace,” said Mothril. 

“Makepeace?” 

“ Yes; even buy it, if it be necessary.” 

“Wretch!” cried Don Pedro, furiously. 

“A nromise!” said Mothril, shrugging his 
shoulders. “Does that cost so dear; and to you, 
tcxi, sire?” 

“Ah! ah!” said Don Pedro, who began to 
understand. « 

“Without doubt,” continued Mothril. “ What 
does Don Henry wish for? A throne! Give 
him one as high as you choose: you can hurl him 
from it afterwards. If you make him a king, he will 
no longer mistrust you, as you have placed the crown 
on his head. Is it, then, I would ask, so advan- 
tageous to have constantly, in unknown situations, 
a rival ready to fall on one like the thunderbolt, 
one knows not whence or when. Assign to Don 
Henry a kingdom; enclose him within limits 
thoroughly known to yourself; do with him as is 
done with the sturgeon, to which a pond stocked 
with live fish, and containing apparently a thou- 
sand recesses, is given. In that bason, expressly 
prepared for it, one is certain to find it when one 
wishes. But what a task to seek for it in the 
sea?” 

“ *Tis true,” said Don Pedro, more and more 
attentive. 

“ If he ask you for Leon,” continued Mothril, 
“ give him Leon. No sooner has he accepted the 
gift, than he must needs thank you for it. You 
will then have him by your side, at your. table, 
within arms’ length: if for a day, an hour, or 
even ten minutes, it is an opportunity which 
fortune will not give, so long as you carry on war 
against each other. He is, they say, at Cala- 
horra. Give him all the ground which lies 
between Calahorra and Burgos: that will only 
make you nearer to him.” 

Don Pedro now understood Mothril thoroughly. 

“Yes,” he muttered in reflection, “it is thus 
that I attracted Don Frederick.” 

“Ah!” said Mothril, “ I really thought that 
you had lost your memory.” 

“ ’Tis well said,” said Don Pedro r letting his 
hand fall on Mothril’s shoulder, “ very well.” 

And the king dispatched to Don Henry, one of 
those indefatigable Moors who measure days by 
the thirty leagues cleared by their horses. 

It did not appear doubtful to Mothril, that 
Henry would accept, if only in the hope of wresting 


from Don Pedro the second part of his kingdom, 
after having received the first. But he did not 
take the constable into his account. Therefore, 
when the reply came from Calahorra, Don Pedro 
and his counsellors were dismayed, firstly, because 
they did not believe in the Pretender’s election, 
and afterwards because they exaggerated its con- 
sequences. 

However, Don Pedro had an army ; but an army 
is less strong when it is besieged. He had Burgos, 
but was the fidelity of Burgos to be relied on? 

Mothril did not conceal from Don Pedro that 
the inhabitants of Burgos passed for being great 
lovers of novelty. 

“We will burn the town,” said Don Pedro. 

Mothril shook his head. 

“ Burgos,” he said, “ is not one of those cities 
which can be burnt with impunity. It is inhabited 
by Christians, who detest the Moors, and the 
Moors are your friends; by Mussulmans, who 
detest the Jews, and the Jews are your treasurers; 
lastly, by Jews, who detest the Christians, and 
there are many Christians in your army. These 
people will tear each other to pieces, instead of 
the army of Don Henry ; they will do more — each 
of the two parties, will betray the others to the 
Pretender. Believe me, sire, you had best find a 
pretext to leave Burgos, and I would advise you 
to leave it before the news of Don Henry’s election 
can reach it.” 

“ If I leave Burgos, I lose a city,” said Don 
Pedro, hesitating. 

“ Not so ; by returning to besiege Don Henry, 
you will find him in the position in which you 
now are, and while you acknowledge that the ad- 
vantages are now on his side, those advantages 
will then be on yours. Try a retreat, sire.” 

“ What — fly!” cried Don Pedro, raising his closed 
hand. 

“ He does not fly who returns, sire,” answered 
Mothril. 

Don Pedro still hesitated, but sight soon brought 
him to what counsel could not effect. He remarked 
groups gathering round thresholds; .still more 
numerous groups collecting in public places, and 
among the men who composed these assemblies, 
he heard one who said : — 

“ The king, Don Henry.” 

“ Mothril,” said he, “you were right. I now 
think, in my turn, that it is time to depart.” 

A few minutes afterwards, Don Pedro was 
quitting Burgos, at the moment that the banners 
of Don Henry of Transtamara were appearing on 
the summits of the Asturian mountains. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE CORONATION. 

The inhabitants of Burgos, who trembled at the 
idea of being taken between the two competitors, 
and who, in that case, saw that they would have 
to pay all the expenses of the war, no sooner per- 
ceived the retreat pf Don Pedro, and recognised 
the banners of Don Henry, than on the very 
instant by a turn very easily understood, they 
became the warmest partizans of the new 
sovereign. 

In civil wars, whoever shews even a passing in- 
feriority, is sure to fall at once a few degrees 
lower than even this inferiority necessitated. Civil 
war is not only a struggle of interests, but also a 
conflict of self-love. To retreat in such a case, is 
to lose the game. The advice given by Mothril, 
advice given in accordance with his Moorish 


126 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


nature, in which the estimate of courage is differ- 
ently framed from ours, was therefore bad with 
regard to the Christians, w'ho formed the greater 
part of the population of Burgos. 

For their part again, the Mahometan and Jew- 
ish population, in the hope of gaining something 
by the change united with the Christian popu- 
lation, to proclaim Don Henry king of the Castiles, 
of Seville, and of Leon, and to declare that Don 
Pedro had forfeited the throne. 

It w r as then, amid unanimous acclamations, that 
Don Henry, conducted by the Bishop of Burgos, 
repaired to the palace still warm with the presence 
of Don Pedro. 

Duguesclin installed his Bretons in Burgos, and 
established around it the French and Italian com- 
panies, which had remained faithful to their 
engagements when the English companies had 
left him. In this manner he could watch over 
the city without harassing it. Further, he in- 
stituted the strictest discipline ; the least theft was 
to be punished among the Bretons with death, 
and among the foreigners by the whip. He 
understood that^this conquest thus conquered by 
its owm consent, required to be treated with great 
consideration, and that it was important his 
soldiers should b§ adopted by these new adherents 
to the cause of usurpation. 

“ Now,” said he to Henry, “ solemnity your 
highness, if you please. Send for your wife, the 
princess, who is impatiently .waiting for news of 
you in Arragon, and let her be crowned queen 
at the same time as you are % crowned king. 
Nothing makes so good an effect in ceremonies, 
as I have observed in France, as women and 
cloth of gold. And further, many persons little 
disposed to love you, and who yet ask for nothing 
better than to turn their backs on your brother, 
will exhibit an ardent zeal for the new' queen, if, 
as is said, she is one of the most beautiful and 
graceful princesses in Christendom. Farther,” 
added the good constable, “it is a point on which 
your brother cannot enter into a contest with 
you, since he has killed his wife. And when all see 
you make so good a husband to Joan of Castile, 
they will only ask him the more what he did 
with Blanche of Bourbon.” 

The king smiled at these words, the logic of 
which he was forced to acknowdedge ; besides, at 
the same time that they satisfied his understanding, 
they flattered his pride and his mania for osten- 
tation. The queen was, therefore, sent for to 
Burgos. 

In the meantime the town w r as hung with 
tapestry, garlands of flowers were festooned to 
the walls, and the streets strewed with palms 
disappeared under a carpet of verdure. On all 
sides the Castilians ran in without arms, joyful, 
perhaps as yet undecided, but <i« erring a definitive 
decision, till they could judge the effhc' of the 
splendour of the approaching ceremony, and of 
the munificence of their new master. 

When the arrival of the queen w'as signalised, 
Duguescli i placed himself at the head of his 
Bretons, and w r ent to receive her at a league’s 
distance from the town. 

The princess J >an of Castile was truly a beau- 
tiful lady, and her beauty w r as set off by the 
glitter of a splendid dress, and of a truly royal 
equipage. 

She sat, says the chronicle, in a car covered 
with cloth of gold, and enriched with precious 
stones. The queen’s three sisters, accompanied 
her, and their ladies of honour followed in 
carriages almost equally magnificent. 


Around these brilliant litters a crowd of pages 
glittering with silk, gold, and jewels, urged the 
graceful prancing of superb Aridelusian coursers, 
whose breed, when crossed with that of Arabia, 
produces horses fleet as the wind and proud as 
the Castilians themselves. 

The sun glittered on this brilliant cortege, while 
it cast its light at the same time on the coloured 
glass of the cathedral windows, and warmed the 
Egyptian incense which the nuns burned in 
golden censers. 

Mingled with the Christians who thronged on 
the queen’s path, were Mussulmans dressed ia 
their richest caftans, and admiring those noble 
and beautiful women, whose light veils floating 
with the breeze, screened them from the sun, but 
not from the lookers on. 

As soon as the queen saw Duguesclin approach- 
ing her, who was recognisable by his gilded 
armour, and by the constable’s sword borne before 
him by a squire on a cushion of blue velvet, 
embroidered with golden Jleurs-de-lis , she ordered 
the white mules, which drew her chariot, to be 
stopped, and hastily descended from her seat. 

Following the example of Joan of Castile, 
though without knowing her intentions, the 
king’s sisters, and the ladies of their suite, also 
alighted. 

The queen advanced towards Duguesclin, who, 
w'hen he perceived her, jumped from his horse. 
She then began running, says the chronicle, and 
came to him with outstretched arms. 

The constable immediately unfastened his 
helmet, and cast it far behind him. So that, says 
the chronicle, when the queen saw him wflth his 
face uncovered, she hung round his neck and 
embraced him as a tender sister might have 
done. 

“ It is to you,” she cried, with an emotion so 
deep as to gain the hearts of all present; “ it is to 
you, illustrious constable, that I owe my crowm ! 
An honour most unexpectedly conferred on my 
house! Thanks, Sir Knight; "God w r ill give you a 
fitting reward. As to myself, I can only do one 
thing, which is to equal your services by my gra- 
titude.” 

At those words, and above all at this royal 
embrace, so honourable to the good constable, a 
cry of assent almost formidable, from the great 
number of voices which took part in it, rose from 
the midst of the people and the army, accompanied 
by unanimous applause. 

“ Noel to the good constable!” they cried; “joy 
and prosperity to Queen Joan of Castile.” 

The king’s sisters were less enthusiastic; they 
were merry and satirical girls. They cast side- 
long glances at the constable, and as the appear- 
ance of the good knight naturally suggested a 
comparison between the ideal they had formed, 
and the reality they had before their eyes, they 
whispered to each other — 

“ So that is the illustrious warrior; what a big 
head he has!” 

“ And see, countess, what round shoulders he 
has,” continued the second of the young sisters. 

“ And what bandy legs!” said the third. 

“Yes, but he has made our brother a king,” 
resumed the eldest, to put a close to this inves- 
tigation, which was so little to the good knight’s 
advantage. 

The fact is, that the illustrious knight had his 
great soul, which made him perform so many fine 
and noble actions, enclosed in a mould very little 
w'orthy of it; his enormous Breton head, full of 
good ideas and generous obstinacy, would kavo 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


127 


appeared vulgar to whoever had omitted to re- 
mark the fire which darted from his black eyes, 
and the harmony of blended gentleness and reso- 
lution in his features. 

He had, certainly, bandy legs; but tie good 
knight had so often been on horseback or the 
honour of France, that, without, a want of gra- 
titude, none could reproach him with this cur- 
vature, contracted by holding to his generous 
steed. 

No doubt, the king’s second sister had rightly 
remarked that Duguesclin’s shoulders were round, 
but to these inelegant shoulders, those muscular 
arms appended, which, with one effort, could make 
horse and rider bend in the melee. 

The crowd could not say, “ That is a handsome 
knight,” but they were sure to say, “ that is a for- 
midable knight.” 

After this first interchange of politeness and 
thanks, the queen mounted on a white mule of 
Arragon, covered with a housing embroidered 
with gold, and a harness of gold and jewels, pre- 
sented by the citizens of Burgos. 

She begged Duguesclin to walk on her left, and 
chose to accompany the king’s sisters, Messire 
Olivier de Mauny, the Begue de Vilaines, and 
fifty other knights who left on foot by the side of 
the ladies of honour. 

Thus they came to the palace; the king was 
waiting under a canopy of cloth of gold ; near him 
was the Count of Lamarche, who had that morn- 
ing arrived from France. When he perceived the 
queen he rose up; the queen, on her part, alighted 
from her horse, and came to kneel down before 
liira. The king raised her up, and, after em- 
bracing her, uttered these words aloud : — 

“ To the monastery of Las Huelgas.” 

It was in that monastery that the coronation 
was to take place. 

All followed then the king and queen, shouting 
“ Noel.” 

Agenor, during all this noise and these fetes, 
had withdrawn to a remote and gloomy lodging 
with his faithful Musaron. 

Only this latter, who was not at all in love, but, 
on the other hand, as curious and prying as 
behoved a Gascon squire, had allowed his master 
to remain shut up by himself, and had availed 
himself of his seclusion to visit the town and 
attend all the ceremonies. When, therefore, he 
returned to Agenor in the evening, he had seen 
everything, and knew all that had passed. 

He found Agenor wandering in the garden of 
his lodging, and eager to communicate the news 
he had collected, he told his master that the con- 
stable was no longer only Count de Borgia, but that 
further, before sitting down to table, the queen had 
asked the king a favour, and that this favour being 
granted, she had given to Duguesclin the county 
of Transtamara. 

“ A fine fortune,” said Agenor, abruptly. 

“ That is not all, sir,” continued Musaron, en- 
couraged by this reply to proceed; as short 
as it was, it showed him he w'as listened to. 
“ The king at this reauest of the queen, be- 
came stung with emulation, and before the con- 
stable had time to rise up, ‘Messire,’ he said, 
‘the county of Transtamara is the -queen’s gift; 
1 must confer one in my turn, and I give you, for 
my part, the county of Soria.’ ” 

“ He is overwhelmed with favours, and it is no 
more than justice,” said Agenor. 

“ But that is not all,” continued Musaron; “all 
have had their share in the royal bounty.” 

Agenor smiled, recollecting that he had been 


forgotten, though, in his second-rate position, he 
had also done Don Henry some service. 

“ All,” he resumed; “ how so?” 

“Yes, sir; captains, officers, even the private 
soldiers. Truly 1 cannot cease asking myself two 
questions ; first, how all Spain can be large enough 
to contain all that the king gives? and secondly, 
how all these people can have strength enough to 
carry away all that is given them?” 

But Agenor had ceased to listen, and Musaron 
vainly waited a reply to the pleasantry he had 
uttered. Night had in the meantime come, and 
Agenor leaning against one of those balconies 
carved in trefoil of which the interstices are filled 
with foliage and flowers which, clinging to the 
marble pillars, form a vault over the windows. 
Agenor listened to the distant sounds of re- 
joicing and festivity which came to expire at his 
ear. At the same time the evening breeze w 7 afted 
refreshment to his forehead full of burning 
thoughts, and the penetrating odours of myrtle 
and jasmine recalled to his mind the gardens of the 
Alcazar at Seville, and of Ernautor at Bordeaux. 
Such were the memories which had made him in- 
attentive to Musaron’s recital. 

Therefore Musaron, who knew how to adapt 
himself to the state of his master’s mind, according 
to circumstances, a task always easy to ihose who 
love us and who know our secrets — Musaron, to 
regain possession of his master s attention, chose 
a subject which he knew could not fail to draw 
him from his reverie. 

“Do you know, Sir Agenor,” said he, “that 
all these fetes are only the prelude to war, and 
that a great expedition against Don Pedro will 
follow to-day’s ceremonies; that is, will give the 
country to him who has taken the crown?” 

“Well,” said Agenor, “so be it; we will make 
the expedition.” 

“We shall have far to go, sir.” 

“ Well, we will go far.” 

“ ’Tis there (Musaron made a gesture indicating 
immensity), ’tis there that Messire Bertrand 
wishes to let the bones of the companies rotp 
)ou understand?” 

“ W eli, our bones will rot with the rest, Mu- 
saron.” 

“ That will certainly be a great honour for me, 
sir, but ” 

“ But what?” 

“ But it is very right to say that the master’s 
the master, and the servant the servant; that is, a 
poor machine.” 

“Why so, Musaron?” asked Agenor, struck 
with the lamentable tone which his squire affected. 

“ Because we differ essentially ; you, who are a 
noble knight, serve your masters for honour, as it 
would appear, but I L ” 

“ Well you?” 

“I serve you for my part; firstly, for the 
honour of serving you, and then for the pleasure 
of your company; and lastly, to get my wages.” 

“ But I have also my wages,” rejoined Agenor, 
with some bitterness. “ Did you not see Messire 
Bertrand, bring me a hundred crowns on behalf 
of the king — of the new king?” 

“ I know it, sir.” 

“ Well, of those hundred crowns,” added the 
young man laughing, “ did you not have your 
share?” 

“ And a good share certainly, since I had the 
whole.” 

“ Then you see well, that I also get my wages, 
since it is you who finger them.” 

“ Yes; but what I want to come to is, that you 


128 


THE TRON HAND ; OR, THE RNTOHT OF MAULEON. 


0 


are not paid according to your deserts. A hun- 
dred golden crowns! I could cite thirty officers 
who have received five hundred, and who, over 
and above, have been made by the king, barons, or 
bannerets, or even seneschals of his household.” 

“ Which means that the king has forgotten me; 
does it not?’’ 

“ Thoroughly.” 

“So much the better, Musaron; so much the 
better. I prefer that kings should forget me; 
during that time, they do me no harm at least.” 

“How now?” said Musaron. “ Do you wish to 
make me believe that you are happy to remain 
moping in this garden, while others down there 
are busied in quaffing wine from golden cups, and 
exchanging sweet smiles with the ladies?” 

“It is so, however, Master Musaron,’’ replied 
Agenor. “ And when I tell you so, I must beg 
you to believe me. I have amused myself more 
under thesa myrtles, conversing with my own 
thoughts, than a hundred knights have done down 
there by getting drunk on Xeres wine.” 

“ That’s not natural.” 

“It is so, however.” 

Musaron shook his head. 

“ I should have served you at table, sir, and it 
would be pleasant to be able to say on returning 
to my country — ‘I waited on my master at King 
Henry of Transtamara’s coronation feast.’ ” 

Agenor shook his head with a melancholy 
smile. 

“ You are,” said he, “ the squire of a poor ad- 
venturer, Master Musaron; be satisfied with being 
alive; that, is a proof that you are not dead with 
hunger, which might easily have happened to us, 
having already happened to so many others.” 

“ Besides, those hundred crowns of gold, I have no 
doubt,” said Musaron, “ those hundred crowns 
of gold — but if I spend them, I shall have them no 
longer, and then what are we to live with? What 
are w r e to pay medicines and doctors with, when 
your zeal for Don Henry will have brought you 
wounds and bruises?” 

“ You are a worthy servant, Musaron,” said 
Agenor with a laugh, “and I hold your health 
very dear. Go to rest, therefore, Musaron, as it 
is getting late, and allow r me to amuse myself again 
in my own way, by conversing with my thoughts. 
Go to rest now, and you will only be the readier to 
buckle on your armour again.” 

Musaron obeyed. He retired with a sly laugh, 
as h A thought he hkd awakened a little ambition 
in his master’s heart, and hoped that ambition 
would bear its fruits. 

However, it was not so. Agenor entirely ab- 
sorbed by amorous thoughts, really concerned 
himself neither with duchies nor treasures He 
was a sufferer from that painful nostalgia 
w hich makes us regret, like our natal soil, any 
country in wdiich we have been happy. 

He regretted then the gardens of the Alcazar 
and of Bordeaux. 

And yet as a trace of light remains in heaven, 
even when the sun has disappeared, so a trace of 
Musaron’s words remained in his mind, even after 
the squire’s departure. 

“ Can I,” he said, “ become a rich lord, a power- 
ful captain? No! I can foresee nothing similar 
in my destiny. I have neither taste, strength, nor 
ardour to conquer any happiness but one. What 
does it matter to me that I have been forgotten in 
the distribution of royal favours? All kings are 
ungrateful. What does it matter that the consta- 
ble has not invited me to the feast, and distin- 
guished me among the captains? Men are for- 


getful and unjust. Further,” he added, “when I 
am sick of their forgetfulness and injustice, I w ill 
ask for my dismissal.” 

“Gently!” cried a voice close to Agenor, who 
trembled and started back almost frightened; 

“ gently, young man! We stand in need of your 
services.” 

AgOnor turned round and saw tw o men wrapped 
in dark cloaks, who had just appeared at the 
bottom of the leafy cabinet, which he believed 
untenanted, his abstraction having prevented him 
from hearing the sound of their footsteps on the 
sand. 

The one who had spoken came to Mauleon and 
took him by the arm. 

“ The constable!” muttered the young man. 

“ Who comes to prove to you by his presence 
that he has not forgotten you,” continued Ber- 
trand. 

“It is because you are not a king,” said 
Mauleon. 

“It is true the constable is not a king,” said 
the second person; “but I am, count, and it is 
even to you, I recollect, that I owe a part of my 
crown.” 

Agenor recognised Don Henry. 

“ Sire,” he stammered, quite disconcerted, “for- 
give me, I beg.” 

“You are already forgiven, messire,” replied 
the king, “ only as you have in no respect been a 
sharer in the rewards bestowed upon others, you 
shall have something better than the others have 
had.” 

“ Nothing, sire, nothing,” resumed Mauleon. 

“ I desire nothing, for it would be thought I had 
asked for it.” 

Don Henry smiled. 

“Be composed, Sir Knight,” he replied; “none 
will say that, I engage; for few would ask for 
w hat I am about to -offer you. The mission is 
full of dangers but is at the same time so honorable, 
that it will force all Christendom to cast its eyes 
upon you. Seigneur de Mauleon you are about 
to become my ambassador, and I am a king.” 

“Oh, sire! I was far from expecting such an 
honour.” 

“ Come, no shamefacedness, young man,” said 
Bertrand; “the king wdshed first to send me 
where you are going, but he recollected that I 
might be needed here to lead the companies, peo- 
ple difficult enough to lead, I warrant you. I had 
spoken to his higmness about you, just at the 
moment that you were accusing us of forgetting 
you, as a man of firmness and eloquence, possess- 
ing a thorough knowledge of the Spanish language, j 
Being a Bearrais, you are in fact half a Spaniard. 
But as the king was saying to r cu, the mission is 
dangerous; it is requisite to go and find Don 
Pedro.” 

“Don Pedro!” cried Agenor, transported with 

j°y- 

“ Ah, ah ! that pleases you, I see, Sir Knight,” ; 
Henry remarked. 

Agenor felt that this joy had made him indis- 
creet, and oppressed it. 

“ Y"es, sire; it pleases me,” he said, “as it 
gives me an opportunity of serving your high- 
ness.” 

“You will truly serve me, and essentially,” I 
resumed Henry, but I warn you, noble messenger, I 
at the peril of your life.” 

“ Give your orders, sire.” 

“ It will be necessary,” the king continued, I 
“to cross the whole of the plain of Segovia, where I 
Don Pedro is at this moment. I will give you I 


THE TRON HAND; OR. THE TvNTOHT OF MAULEON, 


123 



fis a letter of credence a jewel which belonged to 
my brother, and which Don Pedro will certainly 
recognise. But reflect well on what I am about 
to say, before you accept, Sir Knight.” 

“ Say on, sire.” 

. “ Y°u are enjoined if you are attacked on your 
journey, made prisoner, or threatened with death, 
not to discover the object of your mission; you 
would discourage our partisans too much by 
teaching them that, at the height of prosperity, I 
had made overtures of conciliation to my enemy/’ 

“ Of conciliation!’’ exclaimed Agenor with as- 
tonishment. 

“The constable will have it so,” said the 
kmg. 

“Sire, I never will; I only entreat,” said the 
constable. “ I have begged your highness to 
poise well the gravity, in the eyes of the Lord, of 
a war like that which you are carrying on. It is 
not enough to have on one’s side only the kings of 


the earth; in circumstances such as these, we 
should also have the King of Heaven. I depart from 
my instructions, it is true, in urging you to mal e 
peace, but King Charles V. himself will approve 
me, in his wisdom, w'hen I say to him: 4 Sire, they 
were two children, born from the same father, 
two brothers, who having drawn the sword 
against each other, might some day meet and 
inflict mutual destruction. Sire, m order that 
God may pardon one brother for drawing h»s 
sword against another, the one who desires God’s 
pardon should first have justice entirely on his 
side. Don Pedro offered you peace — you refused ; 
because, had you accepted, it might have been 
supposed you were afraid; now that you have 
conquered — that you have been crowned, that you 
are a king, offer it in your turn, and it will be said 
that you are a magnanimous prince, without ambi- 
tion, and a lover only of justice; and that portion of 
your estates which you now lose, will soon com* 



130 


TTTE IKON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


back to you, through the free choice of your sub- 
verts If he refuse, well then! we will push on; 
you will have no longer anything to reproach 
yourself with, and he will have of his own option 
devoted himself to ruin.” 

“ Yes,” replied Henry, with a sigh; “ but shall 
I have another opportunity of working his ruin?” 

“ My lord,” said Bertrand, “ I have said what I 
have said, and have spoken according to my con- 
science. A man who wishes to walk in the 
straight road, should not say to himself that per- 
haps that road might have been equally straight 
had he made a circuit.” 

“ So be it," answered the king, making up his 
mind, at least in appearance. 

“ Your majesty is then thoroughly convinced?” 
said Bertrand. 

“Yes, without return.” 

“ And without regret?” 

“Oh! oh!” said Henry, “you ask too much, 
sir constable. 1 give you carte blanche to 
conclude peace, do not ask me anything further.” 

“ Then, sire, permit me to give the knight his 
instructions, such as we have drawn them up.” 

“ Do not take that trouble,” said the king with 
vivacity. “ I will explain all that to the knight, 
and besides, (he whispered,) you know what I have 
to remit him.” 

“ Very well, sire,” said Bertrand, who saw no 
ground for suspicion in the eagerness which the 
king showed to get rid of him. 

And he departed. But he had not crossed the 
threshold, when he turned back again. 

“You remember, sire,” said he: “a good 
peace, the half of the kingdom if needful, truly 
fraternal conditions! a very prudent and very 
Christian manifesto, with nothing to outrage 
pride.” 

“ Yes, certainly,” said the king, blushing in 
spite of himself, “ yes, you may, sir constable, rely 
on my intentions.” 

Bertrand did not think it becoming to dwell 
on the subject longer. However his suspicions 
seemed to be awaked for an instant, but the king 
dismissed him with so friendly a smile that they 
again became lulled. 

The king followed Bertrand with his eyes. 

“ Sir Knight,” said he to Mauleon, as soon as 
the constable was lost among the trees, “ here is 
the jewel which is to accredit you with Don 
Pedro, but let the words just uttered by the consta- 
ble be effaced from your memory, so as to allow 
mine to engrave themselves more profoundly.” 

Agenor gave a sign that he listened. 

“I promise peace to Don Pedro,” continued 
Don Henry ; “ I will resign to him the half of 
Spain, from Madrid as far as Cadiz; I will remain 
his friend and ally, but on one condition.” 

Agenor raised his head, still more surprised at 
the tone, than at the words of the prince. 

“ Yes,” resumed Henry, “whatever the consta- 
ble may say to it, I repeat, on one condition. 
You appear surprised, Mauleon, that I should 
conceal anything from the good knight. Listen: 
the constable is a Breton, a man obstinate in his 
probity, but knowing little of the small value set 
on oaths in Spain,* a country where passion burns 

* M. Dumas is too heedless of scattering imputations on 
national character I believe that so far from this picture being 
just, the Spaniards have in times past borne a character 
for good faith and honour quite as high as any European na- 
tion and certainly higher than the French, whose annals in all 
times of civil dissension, whether in that of the English wars, 
of the Orleans and Armagnac factions, of the Husruenot 
wars, of the Fronde, or of the revolution, offer the most 
levoltiug spectacles of perfidy and perjury. The Spanish 


the heart with more heat than the sun does the 
soil. He cannot, therefore, know the extent of 
Don Pedro’s hatred towards me. He, the worthy 
Breton, forgets that Don Pedro killed my brother 
Don Frederick, by treachery, and strangled his 
master’s sister, without trial. He imagines that 
here, as in France, war is waged on the field of 
battle. King Charles, who ordered him to exter- 
minate Don Pedro, knows better the man he has 
to deal with; and it is the genius of King Charles 
which has inspired the orders I give you.” 

Agenor bowed, frightened, at the bottom of his 
soul, by these effusions of royal confidence. 

“ You will go, therefore, to Don Pedro,” conti- 
nued the king, “ and you will promise him in my 
name, what I have mentioned, on the condition, 
however, that the Moor, Mothril, and twelve 
notables of his court, whose names are written 
on this parchment, shall be delivered to me, as 
hostages, with their families and their goods.” 

Agenor trembled: the king had said with their 
families; Mothril, if he came to the court of Don 
Henry, was then to come with Aissa. 

“In which case,” continued the king, “you will 
bring them with you.” 

A tremor of joy passed through Agenor’s veins, 
and did not escape Henry’s attention, but he was 
deceived in its origin. 

“You are alarmed,” said Don Henry; “fear 
nothing; you think that amongst those misbe- 
lievers your life may be endangered on the road. 
No, the danger is not great, at least in my opinion; 
gain the Douro quickly, and as soon as you have 
crossed its course, you will find, on your return to 
this side, an escort which will protect you from 
all insult, and will ensure me the safe possession 
of the hostages.” 

“Sire, your highness is mistaken,” said Maul&on; 

“ it is not fear that made me tremble.” 

“ What, then?” asked the king. 

“Impatience to start for your service; I wish 
that I was already on the road.” 

“You are a brave knight,” exclaimed Henry; 
“a noble head, and I would answer, young man, for 
your going far; would you link yourself thoroughly 
to my fortunes.” 

“Ah! sire,” said Mauleon, “you have already 
rewarded me more than 1 deserve.” 

“ You will, therefore, start?” 

“ Forthwith.” 

“ Leave, then. Here are three diamonds which 
are called the three Magi;* they would each be* 
worth a thousand crowns to the Jews — and there 
is no want of Jews in Spain. Here are a thousand 
florins more; but they are only for your squire’s 
travelling case.” 

“ Sire, you overwhelm me,” said Mauleon. 

“On your return,” continued Don Henry, “I 
will make you the banneret of a banner of a hun- 
dred lances, equipped at my own expense.” 

“ Oh ! not a word more, sire, I entreat.” 

“ But promise me that you will not mention to 
the constable the conditions I have imposed on my 
brother.” 

“ Oh ! fear not, sire ; he would object to those 
conditions, and I wish not for his opposition more 
than you do.” 

character is degenerate from what it was, but in their last 
civil wars, there appears to have been few examples of 
tnat treachery and tergiversation so common in the civil 
discords of France, until that act of betrayal on the part of 
Maroto, which brought them to a termination. — Trans- 
lator. 

* Otherwise the three “Wise Men of the East,” or the 
three kings of Cologne, Caspar, Melchior and Bal- 

tliuzar. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


131 


“ Thanks, Sir Knight,” said Henry; “you are 
more than brave, you are intelligent.” 

“ I am in love,” muttered Mauleon to himself, 

“ and it is said that love gives one all those quali- 
ties which one would not otherwise possess.” 

The king went to rejoin Du£uesclin. 

Agenor, in the meanwhile, went to rouse up 
his squire, and two hours afterwards both were 
trotting by the light of the moon on the road 
leading to Segovia. 

CHAPTER XXX. 

HOW DON PEDRO ON HIS RETURN REMARKED THE 

LITTER, AND WHAT FOLLOWED THEREUPON. 

Don Pedro, in the meanwhile, had reached 
Segovia, bearing with him the bitterest vexation 
in the depths of his heart. 

The lirst blows struck at the royalty he had for 
ten years enjoyed, had been more painful to him 
than were at a later period reverses sustained in 
battle, and the faithlessness of his best friends. It 
appeared to him, accustomed es he was to roam by 
day and by night, to go about Seville habitually, 
with no other guard than his sword, or disguise 
than his cloak, that to be obliged to cross Spain 
with so much precaution, was like flying, and that 
a king was lost when he was once forced to make 
a compromise of his inviolability. 

But by his side, like the genius* of antiquity 
who breathed rage into the heart of Achilles, 
went Mothril, galloping when he hastened his 
course, going slower when he slackened his speed, 
— Mothril, a true minister of hatred and fury, 
an unwearied counsellor of bitterness, offering the 
deliciously tart fruits of vengeance, — Mothril, 
always prodigal in imaginations of evil, and 
ready in avoiding dangers, - Mothril, whose inex- 
haustible eloquence, drawing its resources from 
the unknown treasures of the east, showed the 
fugitive king more treasure, more resources, and 
more power, than he had dreamed in his most 
prosperous days. 

Thanks to him, the long and dusty road became 
abridged like the riband wound by the spinner. 
Mothril, the man of the desert, knew at mid- 
day how to find the spring hidden under oaks and 
plantains : Mothril knew 7 , when they passed 
through towns, how to attract for Don Pedro 
some cries of delight, some demonstrations of 
fidelity, — the last reflections of a dying royalty. 

“They love me still, then,’ said the king; “or 
they still fear me, which is, perhaps, better.” 

“ Become a king, in truth, once more, and you 
will see whether they will not adore, or will not 
tremble before you,” replied Mothril, with an 
irony which escaned observation. 

But in the miast of these fears and hopes, and 
of the questions put by Don Pedro, Mothril had 
remarked one thing with joy — that is, the 
king’s complete silence with reference to Maria 
Padilla. This enchantress, — who, when present, 
had so great an influence over him that it was 
attributed to magic, — now that she w 7 as absent, 
appeared not only exiled from his heart, but 
erased from hh memory. This was because Don 
Pedro, a man of ardent imagination, of flexible 
caprice, a man of the South, — that is, a man of 
pas f i?n, in the full sense off the word, had been, 
since the beginning of his journey with Mothril, 
subjected to the influence of another thought: — 
that Utter, which from Bordeaux to Vittoria had 

• This genius is wholly unmrntioned by Homer, and ap- 
jHK».rs imagined by M. Dumas himself. 


remained constantly shut; that woman flying in 
Mothril’s track over mountains, and whose veil 
three or four times wafted aside by the wind, had 
allowed a glimpse of one of those adorable Eastern 
Peris, with their velvet eyes, their blue black hair, 
their smooth and harmonious complexion, — that 
sound of the guzla which watched through the 
darkness of the night, with love, while Don 
Pedro was watching with anxiety; all this had by 
degrees banished from Don Pedro’s mind the 
remembrance of Maria Padilla: and it was still 
less distance which had injured the absent mis- 
tress, than the presence of that unknown and 
mysterious being, whom Don Pedro, with his pic- 
turesque and exalted imagination, appeared ready 
to take for some genius subjected to the more 
powerful enchanter, Mothril. 

They arrived thus at Segovia, without any 
serious obstacles having impeded the king’s pro- 
gress. There nothing was changed. The king 
found every thing just as he left it — a throne in a 
palace, archers in a good town, respectful subjects 
about the archers. 

The king breathed again. 

On the morrow of his arrival, a considerable 
body of men was signalled from the walls. It 
was Caverley and his company, who, faithful to 
their sovereign’s allegiance, came with that 
nationality which has always made the strength 
of England, to join the ally of the Black Prince, 
himself expected by Don Pedro. 

On the day preceding, a considerable body of 
Andalusians and Moors coming to the king’s 
assistance, had also effected a junction on the 
road. 

An emissary soon arrived from the Prince of 
Wales, that eternal c.nd indefatigable enemy of 
the French name, whom John and Charles Y. 
always met with whenever France, during tlieir 
two reigns, had to experience a reverse; this 
emissary brought ample and welcome news to the 
king, Don Pedro. 

The Black Prince had assembled an army at 
Auch, and had now been for twelve days on the 
march with that army; he had dispatched this 
envoy from the centre of Navarre, an ally which 
he had detached from Don Henry’s cause, in 
order to announce to Don Pedro his approaching 
arrival. 

Don Pedro’s throne, shaken for an instant by 
the proclamation at Burgos of Don Henry de 
Trans tamara, was therefore gradually beooming 
more and more secure. And in proportion as it 
became stronger, the unvarying partizans of power 
ran in from* all sides, good people who were 
already preparing to salute Don Henry at Burgos, 
when they learned that the time for starting had 
not yet come, and that by too great hurry they 
might well chance to leave an ill-dethroned king 
behind them. 

To these persons, always numerous, must be 
added the less bulky, but better chosen group of 
the faithful and the pure, of those hearts of 
diamond-like transparency and solidity, for whom 
the king once crowned is a king till his death, as 
they have become the slaves of their oath from the 
day that they swore fidelity to their king. These 
men may suffer, fear, and even hate the man, but 
with regard to the prince, they wait patiently and 
loyally till God shall absolve them from their 
promise by calling to him his elect* 

These lo} 7 al men are easy to recognise in a 
times and epochs. They have a less fine exterior 
than others, they speak witli less emphasis, and 
having humbly and respectfully saluted the king 


132 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


re-estabiished on his throne, they withdraw at the 
head of their vassals and await the hour of 
sacrificing their lives for that living principle. 

The only thing which cast a chill over the 
welcome given by these faithful servants to Don 
Pedro was the presence of the Moors now more 
powerful with that king than ever. 

That warlike race of Saracens swarmed around 
Mothril like bees round the hive which encloses 
their queen. They understood that it was that 
bold and skilful Moor who linked them to the side 
of that bold and skilful Christian prince; they 
composed therefore a formidable corps d’armee , 
and as they had everything to gain by civil war, 
they ca ne in on all sides with an enthusiasm 
and activity which the Christian subjects 
viewed in mute inaction with admiration and jea- 
lousy. 

Don Pedro found gold in the public chest; he 
immediately displayed that dazzling luxury which 
captivates the heart through the eyes, and 
ambition through interest. As the Prince of 
Wales was soon about to make his entry into 
Segovia, it had been decided that magnificent 
festivities, whose splendour should pale the 
ephemeral display of Henry’s coronation, should 
be given to restore popular confidence and 
produce the 'Confession that the true and only 
king is the one who possesses and expends the 
most. 

Meanwhile, Mothril Vllowed the long-cherished 
project which was to bind Don Pedro to him 
through his senses, as well as through his under- 
standing, of which he had hold already. The 
guzla of Aissa was heard every nighty and, as like 
a true child of the East, all her songs ^ere songs of 
love, their notes floating on the breeze came to 
caress the prince’s solitude, and brought to his 
blood, parched with fever, those magic pleasures 
which are the transient slumber of the indefatigable 
Southern temperament . * 

Mothril daily waited for some word from Don 
Pedro which should reveal the presence of that 
secret fire, which he perceived was kindled within 
him, but he waited in vain. 

One day, however, Don Pedro said to him 
abruptly, and without preparation, as if making a 
violent effort to break the cord w r hich held his 
tongue. 

“ Well, Mothril, no news from Seville?” 

This word unveiled all Don Pedro’s anxiety. 
Seville meant Maria Padilla. 

Mct-hril trembled: that very morning he had 
caused to be seized on the road from Toledo to 
Segovia, and to be thrown into the Adaja, a 
Nubian slave, charged with a letter from Maria 
Padilla, to the king. 

“• No, sire,” said he. 

Don Pedro fell into a gloomy reverie. Then 
replying aloud to the voice which spoke to him in 
secret : 

“ Thus then has become obliterated from the 
mind of that woman, that devouring passion to 
which I have had to sacrifice my brother, my 
wife, my honour, and my crown; for who has torn 
the crown from my head? It is not alone the 
bastard, Don Henry : it is also the constable.” 

Don Pedro made a menacing gesture which 
boded no good to Duguesclin, should ill- 
fortune ever cause him to fall again into Don 
Pedro’s hands. 

* There is, I am afraid, a great want of clear and distinct 
meaning in this sentence. How can excited passion be 
called a transient slumber, pussayer summed &c ?— 
Translator. 


Mothril did not follow the king on that track ; 
his vivws were fixed on another object. 

“Donna Maria,” he resumed, “ wished above 
all things to be queen, and, us at Seville it may 
be believed that your highness is no longer a 
king ” 

“ You have already told me that, Mothril, and 
I did not believe you.” 

“ I repeat it to you, sire* and you begin to believe 
me. I have already told you, that when I received 
your orders to go and seek at Coimbra the un- 
fortunate Don Frederick ” 

“ Mothril!’ 

“ You know with what tardiness, I may 
even say with what repugnance, I performed that 
order.” 

“ Silence Mothril, silence, ’’^exclaimed Don Pedro. 

“ Your honour, however, sire, was seriously com- 
promised.’’ 

“ No doubt it was; but those crimes cannot be 
attributed to Maria Padilla, but to those infamous 
persons.” 

“ Certainly; but had it not been for Maria 
Padilla, you would have known nothing, lor I 
was silent, and yet it was not from ignorance.” 

“ She loved me, then, since she was jealous?” 

“You are a king, and on the death of the un- 
happy Blanche, she might become a queen. Be- 
sides, one may be jealous without loving. You 
were jealous of Donna Bianca — did you love her, 
sire?” 

At this moment, as if the words pronounced by 
Mothril had been a given signal, the sounds of the 
guzla were heard, and Aissa’s words, too distant to 
be understood, fell on Don Pedro’s ear with an 
harmonious murmur. 

“Aissa,” muttered the king; “is it not Aissa who 
sings?” 

“ I think so, sire,” said Mothril. 

“Your daughter, or your favourite slave, is she 
not?” asked Don Pedro, with an absent air. 

Mothril shook his head with a smile. 

“Oh, no!” said he; “one does not kneel before 
a daughter, sire; before a slave bought with gold, 
an old and prudent man does not clasp his hands,” 

“Who, then, is she?” exclaimed Don Pedro, 
whose thoughts, momentarily concentrated on the 
mysterious damsel, were bursting their bounds. 
“ Are you playing with me, cursed Moor? are you 
burn : ng me for your amusement with a hot iron, 
that you may have the pleasure of seeing me 
bound like a bull?” 

Mothril drew back almost frightened, so abrupt 
and violent was this outburst. 

“Will you answer me?” cried Don Pedro, who 
laboured under one of those frenzies of passion 
which change a king to a maniac, a man to a wild 
beast. 

“ Sire, I dare not tell you.” 

“ Bring me that woman, then,” exclaimed Don 
Pedro, “and let me ask herself.” 

“ Oh ! sire,” exclaimed Mothril, as if dismayed 
at such an order. 

“ I am the master, and command you!” 

“ Sire, for pity’s sake ” 

“ Let her be liere in an hour’s time, or I will go 
and snatch her from her apartment.” 

“Sire,” said Mothril, drawing up with the calm 
and solemn gravity of the Orientals, “ Aissa is of 
too lofty a race for profane 1 ands to be laid upon 
her; do not, oh! King Don Pedro, offend Aissa.” 

“ And how should the Moresca find offence in 
my love?” asked Don Pedro; “ my wives were the 
daughters of princes, and more than once my 
mistresses have been fully worth my wives.” 


TfTE IRON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


138 


“ Sire,” said Mothril, “ were AYssa my daughter, 
as you think, I should say ‘ King Don Pedro, spare 
my child, do not dishonour your servant. And, 
perhaps, in recognising the voice of him who has 
given you such frequent and such good counsel, 
you would spare my child. But Aissa has in her 
veins a blood nobler than that of your wives and 
your mistresses; Aissa is more noble than a 
princess. Aissa is the daughter of the King Mo- 
hammed, the descendant of Mohammed, the 
prophet. You see, therefore, that Aissa is more 
than a princ*ess, is more than a queen, and I order 
you, Don Pedro, to respect Aissa.’ 55 

Don Pedro stopped, subdued by the proud and 
commanding tone of the Moor. 

“The daughter of Mohammed, King of Grenada,” 
he muttered. 

“Yes, the daughter of Mohammed, King of 
Grenada, whom you caused to be murdered. I 
was, you know, in that great prince’s service, and 
I saved her, when your soldiers were pillaging his 
palace, and when a slave was carrying her away 
in his mantle to sell her. It is now nine years 
since then. Aissa was barely seven years old; you 
heard that I was a faithful counsellor, and you 
summoned me to your court. God willed that I 
should serve you. You are my master, you are 
great among the great; I have obeyed. But the 
daughter of my former master has followed me to 
the abode of the new one; she believes me her 
father, the poor child having been brought up in 
the harem without ever seeing the majestic face 
of the sultan, who is no more. Now you have my 
secret, your violence has torn it from me. But 
remember, King Don Pedro, that I watch for you, 
as a slave devoted to your slightest caprices, but- 
that I will rear myself like the serpent to defend 
against you the only object which I prefer to 
yourself.” * 

“But I love Aissa,” exclaimed Don Pedro, 
beside himself. 

“ Love her then Don Pedro, as you may, for 
she is of a blood at least equal to your own; 
love her, but obtain her by her own choice,” 
replied the Moor. “ I will not stand in your way. 
You are young, handsome, powerful ; why 
should this young virgin not love you, and grant 
to your love what yon wish to obtain by vio- 
lence?” 

At these words, darted like Parthian arrows, 
and which pierced Don Pedro’s heart to the 
core, Mothril lifted up the tapestry and with- 
drew backwards from the room. 

“But she will hate me; she ought to hate me, 
if she knows that it was I who killed her 
father.” 

“I never speak ill of the master wLom I 
serve,” said Mothril, holding up the tapestry; 
“ and all Aissa know's of you is, that you are a 
good king and a great sultan.” 

Mothril let the tapestry fall again, and during 
some time Don Pedro might hear on the flags 
the sound of his slow and solemn steps wending 
U wards Aissa’s chamber. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

HOW MOTHRIL WAS NAMED CHIEF OF THE MOOR- 
ISH TRIBES, AND MINISTER OF THE KING DON 
PEDRO. 

Yv t e have said that when he left the king, 
Mothril had taken the direction of AYssa’s 
chamber. 

The you g girl confined in her apartment, 


guarded by iron bars, and watched overby Moth* 
ril, longed for air in default of liberty. 

Aissa had not the resource which the women 
of our times possess, of replacing by news the ab- 
sence of correspondence; for her to see Agenor 
no longer was to cease to live; no longer to hear 
him speak, was to have one’s ears closed to all 
earthly sounds. 

Yet a deep conviction lived within her; it was 
that she had inspired a love equal to his; she 
knew that unless dead, Agenor who had already 
succeeded in meeting her three times, would suc- 
ceed in seeing her a fourth; and with her youth- 
ful confidence in the future that Agenor should 
die, appeared to her an impossibility. 

Nothing remained for Aissa but to wait and hope. 

The women of the East make f »r themselves a 
life of perpetual dreams, mingled with energetic 
actions, which are the awakenings or the breaks 
of their volup'uous slumber. Certainly, if the 
poor captive had been able to act in order to find 
Mauleon once more, she would have acted; but 
ignorant as one of those Eastern flowers of which 
she had the perfume and the bloom, she knew 
only to turn in the direction wLenee love, that sun. 
of her life, shone upon her. To make active 
movements, to procure money, to make inquiries, 
to fly, such were matters never present to her 
imagination* as she deemed them completely im- 
possible. 

Besides, where was Agenor? where was she 
herself? she did not know. At Segovia, no 
doubt, but this name of Segovia was to her the 
name of a town and nothing more. Where that 
town was she was ignorant, not knowing even 
the name of the different provinces of Spain, hav- 
ing made five hundred leagues without knowing 
the countries which she passed through, and 
recalling only three spots of those different 
countries — those where she had seen Agenor. 

But how well had those three spots remained 
engraven on her mind. How clearly she could 
see the banks of the Zezere, that >ister of the 
Tagus, with its groves of wild olive trees, near 
which her litter had been set down its abrupt 
banks and its dark waves from amidst the plash- 
ing moans of which seemed to arise once more 
Agenor’s first words of love, and the last sigh of 
the unfortunate page! How clearly could she 
see her room in the Alcazar, its bars entwined 
with honeysuckle opening on a garden full of 
verdure, in the midst of which foaming waters 
spouted into marble basins! Lastly, how clearly 
she saw the gardens of Bordeaux, with their lofty 
trees of sombre foliage, separated from the house 
by that lake of light which the nfoon poured from 
the heights of heaven. 

Every tone, every aspect, every detail, every 
leaf of these several landscapes was present to 
her eyes. 

But, whether these points, how luminous soever 
in the obscurity of her life, w r ere to her right or 
her left, to the south or to the north of the world, 
was a question which the ignorant young girl 
v'ould have found impossible to solve, as she had 
learnt nothing but what is learnt |n the harem, 
that is, the delights of the bath, and the voluptu- 
ous dreams of idleness. 

Mothril knew this well, he w r ould otherwise 
have been less calm. 

He filtered the young girl’s room. 

A’issa,” he said, after having made his pros- 
trations according to custom, “ may I hope that 
you will listen with some favour to whs 1 1 am 
about to say to you?” 


134 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAUDE ON. 


44 1 owe you everything, and am attached to 
you,” replied the young girl, looking at Mothril 
as if she had desired to read the truth of his 
words in his eyes. 

“Does the life which you lead please you?” 
asked Mothril. 

“In what respect?” asked Aissa, who was 
clearly seeking the object of this question. 

“ I wish to know if you take pleasure in living 
shut up.” 

“ Oh, no,” said Aissa briskly. 

“ You would wish then to change your condi- 
tion ? ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“ What change would please you best? ” 

Aissa remained silent. Tlie only thing she 
desired, she found it impossible to mention. 

“ You don’t answer me,” said Mothril. 

“ I know not what to answer,” said she. 

“ Would you not like, for instance,” continued 
the Moor, “ to ride on a great Spanish horse, fol- 
lowed by women, knights, dogs, and music? ” 

“ It is not that which I most desire,” replied 
the young girl. “But after that which 1 desire, 
I should also like that; provided only ” 

She stopped short. 

“ Provided ? ” asked Mothril with curiosity. 

“ Nothing,” answered the haughty young girl, 
“ nothing!” 

Notwithstanding this reserve, Mothril under-* 
stood very well what the provided meant. 

“•So long as you are with me,” continued 
Mothril, “ and that I pass for your father, al- 
though that distinguished honor does not belong 
to me, I shall be responsible for your happiness 
and your repose — so long as this is the case, the 
only thing you desire, can never be.” 

“And when will that change take place?” 
asked the young girl with naive impatience. 

“ When a husband possesses you.” 

She shook her head. 

“ A husband shall never possess me.” she said. 

“ You interrupt me, Senora,” said Mothril with 
gravity. “ I was, however, speaking on subjects 
important as regards your hapniness.” 

Aissa looked fixedly at the Moor. 

“ Perhaps you do not well know what liberty is,” 
repeated Mothril, “I will tell you; liberty is the 
right to go through the streets without your face 
being covered, or your being shut up in a litter; 
it is the right to receive visits like the Franks, to 
take part in hunting parties and entertainments, 
and to be present at great festivals in the com- 
pany of knights.” 

As Mothril continued speaking, a slight blush 
gradually diffused itself over Aissa’s pale com- 
plexion. 

“ But, on the contrary,” replied the young girl 
with hesitation, “ I had heard that the husband 
took away this right instead of giving it.” 

“ When he is a husband that is sometimes true; 
but. before he is so, above all, when he fills a dis- 
tinguished rank, he permits his betrothed to be- 
have as I have said. In Spain and France, for 
instance, the daughters even of Christian kings 
listen to gallant propositions without being dis- 
honored. He who is about to marry them, allows 
them before hand to make an experiment of the 
lofty and sumptuous life reserved for them, and 
to give you an example; you remember Maria 
Padilla?” 

Aissa listened. 

Well, was not Maria Padilla the queen of 
festivities — the all-powerful mistress of the Alca- 
zar, at Seville, in the provinces, in Spain? Do 


you not remember having seen her through our 
grilled blinds in the palace courts, wearying her 
noble Arab courser, and uniting round her for 
whole days those whom she preferred? While,, 
as I was saying, you were all this time recluse 
and concealed, unable to cross the threshold of 
your room, seeing only your women, and unable 
to speak to any one of what dw T elt in your under- 
standing and your heart.” 

“ But,” said Aissa, “ Donna Maria Padilla 
loved Don Pedro; for when one loves in this 
country, one is free, it would appear, to say so 
openly to him whom she loves. He chooses you, 
and does not buy you as is done in Africa. 
Donna Maria loved Don Pedro, I tell you, and I 
should not love him who thought of marrying 
me.” 

“ How know you that, Senora? ” 

“ Who is he? ” eagerly asked the young girl. 

“You question with great ardor,” said Mothril. 

“And you reply very slowly,” said Aissa. 

“Well, I meant to tell you that Donna Maria 
was free.” 

“ Not so, since she loved.” 

“ One may become free even when one loves, 
senora.” 

“ How so ? ” 

“ One ceases to love, that’s all.” 

Aissa shrugged her shoulders as if he had men 
tioned an impossibility. 

“Donna Maria has recovered her freedom, 1 
tell you ; for Don Pedro loves her no longer, and 
is no longer loved by her.” 

Aissa raised her head in surprise; the Mooi 
continued : 

“ You see then, Aissa, that they have not been 
married, and that yet both have enjoyed the high 
rank and the well being that high rank and illus- 
trious company give.” 

“ What are you driving at ? ” said Aissa, as if 
suddenly struck by a flash of light. 

“At telling you what you have already per 
fectly well understood. 

“ Say on.” 

“ It is, that an illustrious lord — ” 

“ The king — is it not so?” 

“The king himself, senora,” replied Motliri 
with a bow. 

“ Is thinking of giving me the place left vacant 
by Maria Padilla ? ” 

“ And his crown.” 

“ As to Maria Padilla?” 

“ Maria Padilla only learned how to get a pro- 
mise of it; another younger, more beautiful, or 
more skillful may obtain the gift.” 

“ But she— she who is no longer loved, what 
becomes of her ? ” asked the young girl pensively 
interrupting the quick motion which her slendeu 
fingers were giving to a rosary of aloes wood set 
in gold. 

“Oh,” said Mothril, affecting unconcern, “ she 
has made herself another happiness; some say, 
that she has feared the wars into which the king 
has been plunged; others, and that is more prob- 
able, that loving another person, she is about to 
take that person as her husband.” 

“ What person ? ” asked Aissa. 

“ A western knight,” replied Mothril. 

Aissa fell into a deep reverie, for these perfidi- 
ous words revealed to her progressively, as by 
magic power, all the soft future which she dreamt, 
and of which, through ignorance and timidity, , 
she did not dare to raise the veil. ■' 

“ Ah ! they say that ? ” asked Aissa at last, with 
delight. 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OE MAULFON. 


135 


“Yes,” said Mothril; “and they add that she 
exclaimed on recovering her liberty: “Oh! what 
happiness have I not derived from the choice of 
the king, since it has taken me from the silence 
of home, to place me in that broad light in which 
I have been able to discern my love.” 

“ Yes, yes,” continued the young girl, absorbed 
in meditation. 

“ And certainly,” continued Mothril, “ it is not 
in the harem, or the convent, that she would have 
found that joy which has now fallen to her lot.” 

“ ’Tis true,” said Aissa. 

“ Then in the interest of your own happiness, 
Aissa, you will listen to the king?” 

“ But the king will allow me time to reflect, will 
he not? ” 

“ All the time that pleases you, and that it is fit 
he should leave to a young woman of such noble 
descent as yours. He is, however, a gloomy lord, 
irritated by his misfortunes. Your words are 
sweet, when you so please; make them so, Aissa. 
Don Pedro is a great king, whose sensibility must 
be treated with care, and whose desires must be 
increased.” 

“ I will listen to the king, sen or,” replied the 
young woman. 

“Good,” said Mothril to himself, “I was sure 
that ambition would speak, if love would not. 
She loves this Frankish knight enough to seize 
the opportunity which presents itself of seeing 
him again; at this moment she sacrifices the 
monarch to the lover; perhaps, at a later period, 
I may be obliged to watch lest she should sacrifice 
the lover to the monarch.” 

“ You do not then refuse to see the king, Donna 
Aissa ? ’ said he. 

“ I shall be the respectful servant of his high- 
ness,” said the young girl. 

“ Not so, for you are the king’s equal, do not 
forget that. Only display no more of pride than 
of humanity. Adieu, I will acquaint the king 
that you consent to assist at the serenade which 
is given to him every evening. All the court will 
be there, and a good number of noble strangers. 
Adieu, Donna Aissa.” 

“ Who knows, whether among these noble 
strangers, I may not see Agenor ? ” murmured 
the young girl to herself. 

Don Pedro, the man of sudden and violent 
passions, blushed with joy, like a young novice, 
when, in the evening, he saw the beautiful Mores- 
ca approaching the balcony, her beauty shining 
through her gold embroidered veil and black eyes, 
and her pale complexion outvying the most perfect 
beauties that had yet been seen in Segovia. 

Aissa appeared a queen accustomed to the hom- 
age of mankind. She did not lower her eyes, but 
often looked at Don Pedro, while searching the 
assembly with her eyes, and more than once dur- 
ing the evening, Don Pedro quitted his wisest 
counsellors, and his prettiest women, to whisper 
a word to the young girl, who replied without 
confusion', and without embarrassment; but, per- 
haps, with a little absence of mind, for, in fact, 
her thoughts were elsewhere. 

Don Pedro gave her his hand to conduct her to 
her litter, and on the road did not cease speaking 
to her through the silken curtain! 

All night the courtiers were engaged in con- 
versation concerning the new mistress, whom 
the king proposed giving them ; and, on retiring 
to rest, Don Pedro publicly announced that he 
would confide the conduct of negotiations, and 
the payment of the troops, to his prime minister, 
Mothril, the chief of the Moorish tribes engaged 
in his service. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

OF WHAT PASSED BETWEEN AGENOR AND 

MUSARON, AS THEY JOURNEYED IN THE SI- 
ERRA D’ARCAENA. 

The reader has seen Manleon and his squire 
starting on their road, on a fine moonlight night, 
by the desire of the new king of Castile. '* 

Nothing so much disposed Musaron’s heart to 
rejoicing as the jingle of crown pieces, swaying in 
the depths of his immense leathern pocket, and, 
on the occasion we mention, it was not the chink 
of some happy windfall which caused the worthy 
squire’s gaiety: it was the heavy intense sound of 
a hundred large CQins compressed into a bag, and 
striving to wedge their thickness together; Mu- 
saron’s joy, therefore, was great and sonorous in 
proportion. 

The road from Burgos to Segovia, already beaten 
at that time, was a fine one, but even on account 
of its being a fine and well frequented road, 
Mauleon thought it would not be prudent to ad- 
here strictly to its track. He, therefore, like a 
true Bearnais, plunged into the Sierra, following 
the picturesque undulations of its western slope, 
which flowery, rugged and mossy, extends like a 
natural Furrow from Coimbra to Tiidela. 

From the commencement of the journey, Mu- 
saron, who had counted on the assistance of his 
crowns to make his journey according to his own 
wishes, Musaron, we say, found he had made a 
great mistake. If, in the towns and the plain, the 
people had been disburdened of their wealth 
under the double pressure of Don Pedro and Don 
Henry, what must have been the case with the 
mountaineers, who, for their part, never possessed 
riches? Therefore, our travellers, reduced to 
sheep’s milk, to the coarse home-made wine, to 
barley and millet bread, regretted very speedily, 
Musaron especially, the dangers of the plain — 
dangers intermixed with enjoyment, with roast 
kid, with olla prodrida, and with good wine which 
had grown old in the leather. 

Therefore Musaron began by complaining 
bitterly that he had no longer an enemy to fight. 

Agenor, who was thinking of other matters, 
allowed him to complain without replying; then 
at last roused from the depths of his reverie by 
the ferocious rodomontades of his squire, he had 
the misfortune to smile. 

This smile, in which, it is true, a shade of incre- 
dulity might be discerned, displeased Musaron. 

“ I do not believe, sir,” said he, compressing 
his lips to give himself an air of dissatisfaction, 
although that unaccustomed expression of coun- 
tenance clashed with the usual heartiness of his 
honest face, “ I do not think, sir, that you have 
ever doubted my bravery, which more than one 
action of mine might prove.” 

Agenor gave a sign of assent. 

“Yes, more than one action,” Musaron re- 
sumed. “Shall P speak of the Moor so well rid- 
dled through the body, who lies in the ditches of 
Medina Sadonia? or of the other whom I slaugh- 
tered in the chamber of the unfortunate Queen 
Blanche? Address and courage, I say it with 
modesty,” he continued, “ will be my device, if 
ever I rise to knightly rank.” 

“ All that is the exact truth, my dear Musaron,” 
said Agenor; “but let me know what you are 
driving at with your long speeches and your 
severe frowns.” 

“Sir,” answered Musaron, comforted by the 
sympathetic tone which he had remarked in his 
master’s voice, “don’t you find this very weari- 
some ? ” 


THE THON’ HAND: OH. THE TCNTTHET OE MAULEOK 



“ I am rareiy wearied with your company, my 
good Musaron, and never with my own thoughts.” 

“ Thank you, sir: but when I reflect that there 
are here no travellers suspected of disaffection, 
from whom we might carry off at the lance’s point a 
good quarter of cold venison, or some bulky skin- 
full of those good wines which are grown on the 
sea-coast, I feel very much cast down.” 

“ Ah ! I understand, Musaron ; you are hungry, 
anrl vour bowels cry — ‘ To the charge.’” 

“Exactly so, master; but see below us, what 
an excellent road. Only to think that instead of 
roaming through these never-ending ravines and 
under these inhospitable birches we might, by 
following that track which makes a descent for 
about a league’s extent, reach that table-land on 
which a church is visible. Look, sir, by the side 
of a good fat smoke: do you see it? Does no- 
thing speak in favor of that church to so pious a 
knight, to so good a Christian as yourself? Oh! 
what fine smoke ! it smells good even at this dis- 
tance.” 

“Musaron,” replied Agenor, “I, like yourself, 
have every inclination to change my diet and to 
perceive human beings; but I cannot expose my 
person to useless danger. Enough serious and 
indispensable peril awaits me in the accomplish- 
ment of my mission. These mountains are arid, 
they are deserted, but they are safe.” 

“ Well, sir,” resumed Musaron, who appeared 
determined not to surrender without fighting: 
“do me at least the favor of descending a third 
of the slope; there you can wait for me: and I, 
pushing forward to the smoke, will lay in some 
provisions which will help us to keep our pa- 
tience. Two hours only, and I shall be back 
again. As to the track of my course, night will 
pass over it, and to-morrow we shall be far off.” 

“ My dear Musaron,” replied Agenor, “ listen 
well to this.” 

The squire lent his ear with a shake of the 
head, as if he had foreseen that what his master 
begged him to listen to would not be in confor- 
mity with his ideas. 

“ I will permit no turns nor wanderings,” con- 
. tinned Agenor, “until our arrival at Segovia. 
At Segovia, master sybarite, you shall have all 
that you can wish for; exquisite cheer, agreeable 
society. At Segovia, lastly, you will he treated 
like what you are, an ambassadors squire. But 
till then let us march straight on, if you please. 
Besides, is not that town which I perceive lower 
down in mist, and from the centre of which rises 
that fine church belfry and that dazzling dome, 
Segovia? To-morrow eve we shall be there. It 
is not, therefore, worth our while to turn aside 
from our way for so little.” 

“ I will obey your lordship,” resumed Musaron, 
in a mournful voice; “ it is my duty, and I cherish 
my duty, but if I dared to permit myself a reflec- 
tion, entirely in your lordship’s interest — ” 

Agenor looked at Musaron, who replied to that 
look by a nod which signified, I adhere to what I 
have said. 

“ Speak on,” said the young man. 

“There is,” said Musaron, “a proverb in my 
country, and consequently in yours, which advises 
the chime-ringer to sound the little bells before 
he tries the great.” 

“ Well, what does that proverb signify? ” 

“It signifies, sir, that before making your entry 
into the great town of Segovia, it would be pru- 
dent to make experiment of all the small ones; 
then in all probability we shall learn some valua- 
ble truth concerning the state of affairs. Ah! I 


did your lordship only know all the truly happy 
auguries which I draw from the smoke of that 
borough.” 

Agenor was a man of good sense. Musaron ’s 
first reasons had weighed with him little, but the 
last touched him ; further, he reflected that Musa- 
ron had the fixed idea of going to the neighbor- 
ing borough, and that deranging his plan was de- 
ranging the well-regulated clock-work of his 
character, the effect of which might be to expose 
himself during an entire day to what is most 
odious under heaven, the ill-humor of a valet, a 
storm blacker and more inevitable than a tem- 
pest. 

“ Well,” said he, “ I consent to what yon wish. 
Musaron ; go and see what is passing round that 
smoke and return and tell me.” 

As from the commencement of the discussion 
Musaron had been pretty certain of leading his 
master as he chose, he received his permission 
without showing immoderate joy and started off 
at a trot. 

Musaron then followed the turns of that little 
track which he had so long devoured with his 
eyes. 

On his side Agenor, to await conveniently his 
squire’s return, chose a charming amphitheatre 
of rocks interspersed with birches, the centre of 
which was carpeted with that soft moss which is 
only found in mountain regions, and where all 
those beautiful flowers which grow on the borders 
of precipices contend in rivalry of bloom; a 
spring transparent as a mirror slept for an instant 
in its natural basin, then fled sobbing among the 
stones. 

Agenor quenched his thirst, then taking off his 
helmet, he threw himself down under the rustling 
freshness of the shade, at the mossy roots of an 
old green oak. 

Soon, like a true knight of old fabliaux and ro- 
mantic legends, the young man gave himself up 
to the sweet thoughts of love, which soon so com- 
pletely possessed him. that he passed impercepti- 
bly from reverie to ecstacy, and from ecstacy to 
sleep. 

At Agenor’s age one never sleeps without 
dreaming; therefore the young man was no 
sooner asleep than he dreamed that he had ar- 
rived at Segovia, that the king, Don Pedro, had 
laden him with chains and cast him into a narrow 
prison, through the bars of which appeared the 
beautiful Aissa. 

But scarcely had the most lovely vision em 
lightened the darkness of his cell, when Mothril 
came up to chase away the consoling image, and 
a conflict took place between the Moor and him- 
self ; in the midst of the contest, and when he felt 
that he was about to succumb, a gallop was heard, 
announcing the arrival of an unhoped for auxil- 
iary. 

The noise of this gallop persevered so in the 
dream that Agenor’s senses were entirely pos- 
sessed by it, and he awoke at the first accents of 
the horseman whom it had suddenly brought 
back to him. 

“ My lord, my lord,” cried the voice. 

Agenor opened his eyes; Musaron was before 
him. 

It was a curious apparition, that of the worthy 
squire stuck up on his horse, whose motion he 
could only guide by his knees, for his arms were 
stretched out before him, as if he were playing at 
blindman’s buff. For at his elbow joints lie held 
suspended at one side a wine skin, bound by its 
four corners, on the other a linen parcel holding 


THE TROX HAND: OR. THE TCNTOHT OP MAULEON. 


137 



(jmolred tongues and raisins, while with his hands 
he presented, like a pair of pistols, a fat goose 
and a loaf large enough to serve six men for sup- 
per. 

“ My lord, my lord,” cried Musaron, as we have 
said, “ great news!” 

“ What is it now?” exclaimed the'knight, putting 
on his helmet, and laying his hand to the hilt of 
his sword, as if Musaron had preceded a hostile 
army. 

“Oh! how happy an inspiration was mine,” 
continued Musaron, “ and only to think that had 
I not insisted, we should have gone straight 
away.” 

“ What isit then, damned babbler !” cried Agenor, 
impatiently. 

“ What is it? It is that Providence led me to 
the village.” 

“But what did you learn there? Zounds! speak 
out.” 


“ I learnt that the king, Don Pedro — the ex- 
king, Don Pedro, I mean ” 

“ Well?” 

“ Is no longer at Segovia.” 

“Indeed!” cried Mauleon, with vexation. 

“-No, my lord; the alcalde returned yesterday 
from an excursion he had made with the notables 
of the borough to meet Don Pedro, who passed 
yesterday through the plain below on his journey 
from Segovia.” 

“ And whither bound?” 

“ To Soria.” 

“ With his court?” 

“ With his court.” 

“ And,” continued Agenor, with hesitation, 
“with Mothril?” 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And,” stammered the young man, “ with 
Mothril, doubtless, was ” 

“His litter? I believe you; he never lets it 


138 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


out of signt, except wnen tie sleeps. Besides it is 
well guarded now.” 

44 What mean you?” 

*• That the king never leaves it.” 

44 What! the litter?” 

“ Yes, the litter; he escorts it on horseback, and 
it was by its side that he received the deputation 
from the borough.” 

44 Well, my dear Musaron, let us go to Soria,” 
said Mauleon, with a smile which ill-veiled a 
beginning of anxiety. 

“ Let us start then, my lord; but it is no longer 
fit to follow the same road; we are now turning 
our backs to Soria. I have obtained information 
at the borough : we must cross the mountain on the 
left, and we enter on a defile parallel to the plain. 
That defile will spare us the passage of two rivers 
and eleven leagues of road.” 

“So be it; I consent to take you as my guide, 
but remember the responsibility you are incurring, 
my poor Musaron.” 

44 .Reflecting on this responsibility, I will tell 
you, my lord, that you would have done better to 
pass the night at the borough. See the evening 
is coming, a fresh breeze rises; but one hour’s 
march, find the darkness will envelope us.” 

“ Let us turn the hour to good account, Musaron ; 
and, as you are so well informed, show me the 
road.” 

“But your dinner, my lord,” said Musaron, 
making a last attempt. 

“Our dinner will take place when we have 
found a suitable resting place. Come, march, 
Musaron, march.” 

Musaron made no reply; there was in Age nor’s 
voice a certain intonation, which he could recog- 
nise perfectly; when this intonation of voice ac- 
companied any order, nothing more was to be 
said. 

The squire by combinations, one more clever 
than the other, contrived to hold his master’s stir- 
rups without unloading his arms of any of the 
burthens they held and always loaded, mounting 
his horse again, by a miracle of equilibrium, he 
went on first and bravely \ lunged into the moun- 
tain gorge, which was to spare them the passage 
of two rivers, and abridge their road by eleven 
leagues. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

HOW MUSARON FOUND A GROTTO, AND WHAT 
THERE WAS IN THAT GROTTO. 

As Musaron had said, the travellers had about an 
hour more of day before them, and the last rays 
of the sun might guide them on their path, but 
from the moment that its paling flames had aban- 
doned the loftiest peaks of the Sierra, the night 
began to arrive in its turn, with* a rapidity the 
more alarming, as during the last hour of the 
day, Musaron and his master had remarked how 
precipitous and, therefore, how dangerous was the 
road they were following. 

Therefore, after journeying about a quarter of 
an hour in the midst of this darkness, Musaron 
stopped short. 

“ Oh ! oh ! Seigneur Agenor,” said he, “ the road 
is becoming worse and worse, or rather there is no 
road at all. We shall certainly kill ourselves, my 
lord, if you insist on our going farther.” 

“The devil!” said Agenor. “I am not fasti- 
dious, you know, but yet, as a resting place, this 
seems to me somewhat too rural. See if we 
cannot get somewhat further,” 


“ It is impossible; we are on a kind of platform, 
confined on all sides by a precipice; let us stop 
here, or rather halt for the present, and rely on 
my experience of mountains to find you a suitable 
resting-place for the night.” 

“Do you see now any good oily smoke?” 

“ No; but I scent a pretty grotto, with curtains 
of creeping plants, and lined with moss.” 

“ Whence we should have to cha^e a whole 
world of owls, lizards, and serpents.” 

“Faith! that matters little, my lord; at this 
hour, and in the spot where we are, it is not any* 
thing that flies, scratches, or creeps, that can 
frighten me; it is what walks; besides, you are 
not superstitious enough to fear owls, and I do 
not think that lizards or vipers can well take a 
bite out of your iron legs.” 

“ Well,” said Agenor, “ we will stop.” 

Musaron alighted, and fastened his horse's 
bridle to a rock, while his master, erect in his 
saddle, remained in expectation, like the eques- 
trian statue of cool and collected Courage. 

During this time the squire, with that instinct 
of which good will so much multiplies the power, 
began to explore the environs. 

A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when he 
returned with his sword drawn, and the air of a 
conqueror. 

“Here, my lord, this way/’ said he; “ come and 
see our Alcazar.” 

“What the devil is the matter with you now?” 
said the knight; “you appear thoroughly stetptd 
in water.” 

“ The matter is, my lord, that I have fought 
against a forest of creeping plants, which strove 
to make me prisoner, but I struck so lustily with 
cut and thrust, that I opened a passage; then all 
the leaves, wet with dew, rained on my head, a 
dozen of bats made a sortie, and the place sur- 
rendered. Picture to yourself a fine gallery, with 
a soil of fine sand.” 

“Ah ! indeed,” said Agenor, following his 
squire, but doubting somewhat all these fine 
words. 

Agenor was wrong to doubt. Scarcely had he 
made a hundred paces on a somewhat rapid slope, 
than at a spot where the road seemed closed by a 
wall, he began by feeling under his feet a carpet- 
ing of fresh leaves, an abattis of small branches, 
the result of the havoc made by Musaron; while 
here and there were passing great bats impa- 
tient to regain possession of their home, and 
only revealing their presence by the air which 
the silent beating of their wings wafted to the 
knight’s face. 

44 Oh!” said Agenor, “ this seems the cavern of 
the enchanter Maugis!”* 

“Discovered by me, m} r lord, and by me in the 
first instance. My word for it, no man has ever 
thought of putting his foot here! These creepers 
date from the commencement of the world.” 

“Very well,” said Agenor, with a laugh; “but 
if this grotto is unknown to men ” 

“ Oh, I answer for that.” 

“ Can you say as much for wolves?” 

“Oh! oh!” cried Musaron. 

“ Or of the little red bears of the mountain breed, 
you know, such as are found in the Pyre- 
nees?” 

“ The devil!” 

“ Or of those wild cats which rend the throats of 
sleeping travellers, to suck their blood?” 

“ Sir, do you know what we should do; one 
must watch during the other’s sleep. ' 

“ It will be prudent.” 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE ENTOHT OF MAULFON. 


139 


“ Now you have nothing further to say against 
the cavern of the enchanter Maugis?” 

“Nothing whatever; I even find it somewhat 
agreeable.’ 

“ Well, then, let us go in,” said Musaron. 

“ Let us go in.” 

Both alighted from horseback, and entered, cau- 
tiously feeling their way, the knight with his 
lance, the squire with his sword. After advancing 
twenty paces, they came on a solid impenetrable 
wall, which appeared formed by the rock itself 
without apparent cavity, and without a place of 
retreat for noxious animals. 

This cavern was divided into two partitions: 
first, one came in under a kind of portico ; then one 
pierced into the second excavation, which, after 
clearing a sort of gateway, retook its original 
height. 

It was evidently one of those grottos which, in 
the first times of Christianity, were dwelt in by 
one of those pious hermits who had chosen seclu- 
sion as the road to lead them to heaven. 

“ God be praised!” said Musaron, “our sleeoing 
room is safe.” 

“ In that case drive the horses into the stable, 
and lay the table-cover,” said Agenor; “I am 
nungry.” 

Musaron then led in the two horses to what his 
master called the stable ; it was the porch of the 
grotto. 

Then, this duty discharged, he proceeded to the 
more important preparations for supper. 

“ What are you saying?” asked Agenor, who 
neard him grumbling while executing the orders 
he bad received. 

“ I am saying, sir, that I am a great fool for 
forgetting the wax candles to light us. Happily 
we have the means for lighting a fire.” 

“ Can you mean that, Musaron? a fire!” 

“ The fire chases off ferocious animals, that is 
nn axiom, the truth of which I have more than 
once had the opportunity of verifying.” 

“ Yes, but it attracts men; and at this moment I 
avow it, I fear more the attack of an English 
ir a Moorish band, than that of a flock of 
i, lives.” 

“ Ods’ life!” said Musaron; “ it is annoying, sir, 
h-vwever, to eat such good things without seeing 
tfum.” 

* Bah !” said Agenor, “ a hungry belly has no 
ear ; it is true, but it has eyes.” 

Musaron, always compliant, when one knew how 
to persuade him, or when one did what he desired, 
acknowledged this time the solidity of his master’s 
reasons, and went to prepare the dinner at the 
door of the second cavern, so that a lg,st glimpse 
from without might still reach him. 

They began their meal immediately after the 
horses had obtained leave to plunge their heads 
into the bag of oats which Musaron carried on his 
crupper. 

Agenor, a young and vigorous man attacked 
the provisions with an energy which might make 
a lover of our days blush, while the enthusiastic 
accompaniment of Musaron, who cracked the 
bones with the flesh, on the pretence that there 
was no seeing, might also be heard. 

Suddenly, though the motion of Agenor con- 
tinued, Musaron’s accompaniment ceased. 

“ \Vell! how now? ’ asked the knight. 

“ Mv lord, I thought I .heard something,” re- 
plied Musaron, “ but I was no doubt mistaken. It 
is nothing.* 

And he began to eat again. 

Bu!, he soon stopped once more, and as his back 


was turned to the opening, Agenor could remark 
that he was motionless. 

“ Well,” said Agenor, “ are you going mad?” 

“ Not so, my lord; not more than I am getting 
deaf. I hear something 1 tell you.” 

“Pshaw! you dream,” said the knight, “ ’tis 
some forgotten bat beating the walls.” 

“ Well,” said Musaron, lowering his voice so 
much that his master could scarcely hear him, “I 
not only hear, but I see.” 

“ You see?” 

“ Yes, and if you will turn round, you will see 
also.” 

The invitation was so positi ve, that Agenor briskly 
turned round. In fact, in the midst of the obscure 
recess of the cavern, sparkled a luminous ray, a 
light produced by some description of flame pene- 
trated into the grotto, through the crevice of the 
rock. 

The phenomenon was startling enough to any 
who could not immediately apply reflection to 
explain it. 

“ If we have no light,” said Musaron, “ they 
have.” 

“ Who have?” 

“ Why our neighbours.” 

“ You think then that this solitary grotto is in- 
habited? ’ 

“ I have only answered for this, but not for the 
next grotto.” 

“ Come, explain yourself.” 

“ Do you understand, my lord? We are on the 
crest of a mountain or thereabouts, and ere ry 
mountain has two slopes. 

“ Very well.” 

“ Follow my reasoning; this grotto has two en- 
tries. Chance has produced the ill-joined separa- 
tion which we see. We have entered the grotto 
by the western entry, and they by the eastern.” 

“But who are they?” 

“ I know nothing of that. We shall see, my 
lord; you were right in objecting to our lighting 
a fire. I think your lordship is as prudent as you 
are brave, which is not saying a little. But let 
us have a look.” 

“ Let us have a look/’ said Agenor. 

And both plunged, not without some palpitation 
of heart, into the depths of the cavern. 

Musaron went first; he arrived first, and was the 
first to place his eye to the crevice in the wall of 
rock. 

“ Look,” said he, in a low voice, “ it is well worth 
while.” 

Agenor looked in his turn and trembled. 

“ Hum!” said Musaron. 

“ No noise!” said Agenor in his turn. 

CHAPTER XXXIY. 

THE GIPSIES. 

What our travellers were contemplating with 
surprise, cfbserved the attention which they, were 
paying. This is what the eye embraced through 
the crevice vL rock. 

Firstly, a cavern somewhat similar to that in 
which our travellers were; then in the centre of 
that cavern, two figures seated, or rather squatted, 
by a coffer placed on a stone; at one of the angles 
of this stone, one of the two figures was trying to 
fi x a lighted taper, which, illumining the scene, 
flung out that light which had attracted the atten- 
tion of the travellers. 

These two figures were miserably dressed, ana 
hooded with that thick veil of uncertain colour, 


140 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


which distinguished the female gipsies of that day; 
they were therefore recognised by Agenor as two 
women of that wandering nation; by their de- 
meanour and gestures, they appeared old women. 

Two paces from them stood a third figure erect 
and pensive, but as the dickering light of the taper 
did not fall on the face, it was impossible to de- 
termine to what sex it belonged. 

During this time the two first figures arranged 
some packets of clothes to serve as seats. 

All this was poor, miserable, and ragged; the 
coffer alone was in contradiction with all this 
misery, it was in ivory incrusted with gold. 

In the meantime, a fourth figure came in, ad- 
vancing from the bottom of the grotto, first in 
darkness, then in shade, then in light. 

It came near, bowed to one of the women who 
were sitting down, and spoke some words to her, 
which neither Agenor nor Musaron could under- 
stand. 

The gipsy addressed, listened with attention, 
and then dismissed the new comer by a gesture. 

Agenor remarked that this gesture was full of 
nobility and command. 

The standing figure, after making a bow, 
followed the one who had spoken, and both dis- 
appeared in the depths of the grotto. 

Then the woman of the imperious gesture arose 
in her turn, and placed her foot on the stone. 

The actions of all these people could be clearly 
seen, but their words could not be heard, as they 
murmured confusedly through the grotto. 

The two gipsy women remained alone. 

“ Let us wager, sir,” said Musaron, in a whisper, 
u that these two old witches have three hundred 
years between them. Those gipsies live as long 
as crows.” 

“ In fact,” said Agenor, “ they do not appear 
young.” 

During this time, the second woman instead of 
rising like the first, had knelt down, and was 
beginning to unlace the deerskin boot which en- 
closed the other’s leg up to above the ankle. 

“ Faith,” said Agenor, “look if you will, I shall 
retire; nothing is so ugly as an old woman’s 
foot.” 

Musaron, more curious than his master, re- 
mained, while the knight made a movement in 
arrear. 

“ I faith, sir,” said he, “ I assure you that it is 
not so fri; htful as you would think.” 

“Oh! quite on the contrary, it is charming. 
Look sir, look I beg.” 

Agenor ventured to do so. 

“ In fact,” said he, “ it is extraordinary and the 
ankle is of exquisite perfection. Oh! what a fine 
rac^ are these gipsies.” 

The old woman went to dip a linen cloth of the 
finest tissue into a water clear as crystal, and re- 
turned to wash her companion’s foot. 

Then she searched in the gold encrusted coffer, 
and drew from it perfumes with which she rubbed 
the foot, which the two travellers looked on with 
astonishment and admiration. 

“Perfumes! balsams! do you see, sir, do you 
see?' exclaimed Musaron. 

“What does this mean?” murmured Agenor, 
who saw the gipsy uncover a second foot not less 
white and definite than the first. 

“ Sir,” said Musaron, “ it is the toilet of the 
queen of the gipsies, and see now they are un- 
dressing her.” 

In fact, the gipsy, after having washed, wiped, | 
and perfume^ the second foot, as she had done 
the first, passed on next to the veil, which she , 


took off with dll possible precaution and an infinite 
expression of respect. 

The veil, when it fell, instead of disclosing the 
wrinkles of a centenarian, as Musaron had pre- 
dicted, revealed a charming face with brown eyes, 
a glowing skin, a nose modelled with all the purity 
of the Iberian race, and the two travellers were 
able to recognise a woman of from six to eight and 
twenty, in all the splendour of a marvellous 
beauty. 

While the two spectators were absorbed in 
ecstacy, the old gipsy spread on the floor of the 
cavern, a carpet of camel’s hair, which, although 
ten feet in length, would have passed through a 
young girl’s ring; it was composed of that tissue 
of which at that time the Arabs alone had the 
secret, and which >vas woven with the hair of still- 
born camels. Then the first gipsy placed her 
two naked feet on the magnificent carpet, while 
the old gipsy, after having, as we said, removed 
the veil which covered her face, prepared to un- 
loose that which covered her bosom. 

So long as this last tissue remained in its place, 
Musaron held his breath, but when it fell, he 
could not abstain from uttering a cry of admira- 
tion. 

At this cry, which no doubt was heard by the 
two women, the light became extinguished, and 
the most complete darkness buried the cavern, 
drowning in its gulfs, like those of oblivion, the 
reality of that mysterious scene 

Musaron felt that his master was aiming at 
him a violent kick, which by a skilful manoeuvre 
executed in time, only reached the wall, accom- 
panied by this energetic apostrophe — “Animal!” 

He understood, or thought he understood that 
this was at once an order to regain his rest- 
ing place and the chastisement of his indiscretion. 

He therefore went to stretch himself in his 
cloak on the bed of leaves which he had taken 
care to prepare. At the end of five minutes, and 
when it was quite certain that the light would not 
be rekindled, Agenor went to lay down beside 
him. 

Musaron thought that the moment had come 
to obtain forgiveness for his fault by showing his 
perspicuity. 

“ This is how it is,” said he, replying aloud to 
what Agenor was doubtless saying to himself, 
“ they were following, no doubt, on the other side 
of the fountain, a path parallel to ours, and they 
must have found on the opposite slope an opening 
corresponding to that of the cavern where we are, 
the middle being closed by a rock which the ca- 
price of nature, or some farncy of man, has placed 
where it is, as a gigantic partition.” 

“Animal!” Agenor satisfied himself with 
sayi lg a second time; but as this second apostro- 
phe was pronounced in a milder tone, the squire 
perceived some amelioration. 

“ And now,” said he, admiring his own infal- 
lible tact, “who were these women? gipsies no 
doubt. Yes, but why then these perfumes, these 
balsams, those very white feet, that beautiful face, 
and lovely bosom, w hich no doubt we were about 

to see, when, blockhead that I am” Musaron hit 

himself a sound box on the ear. 

Agenor could not avoid laughing. Musaron 
heard him. 

“The queen of the gipsies,” he continued, 
more and more satisfied w ith himself, “ that is 
scarcely probable, although I see no other expla- 
nation to this really fairy vision, which I have 
dispelled through my stupidity. Oh! animal 
that I am !” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


141 


And he gave a box to the other ear. 

A sen or understood that Musaron, not less curi- 
ous than himself, had been struck with a true re- 
pentance. Besides the reparation was sufficient 
for the moment that Musaron had, on reflection, 
given himself the epithet which his master had 
applied to him in a fit of passion. 

‘‘ What think you, sir, of these two women ? ” 
Musaron at length ventured to say. 

“ I think,” said Agenor, “ that those sordid hab- 
iliments of which the younger of the two was di- 
vesting herself, ill suit the brilliant beauty, of 
which, most unfortunately, we have but caught a 
glimpse.” 

Musaron heaved a deep sigh. 

“And,” continued Agenor, “ that the balsams 
and perfumes of the box suit still less those dirty 
clothes, which makes me think ” 

Agenor stopped. 

“ Oh, what do you thiuk, sir?” asked Musaron ; 
u I should be happy, I confess, to have on this oc- 
casion, the opinion of a knight so enlightened a,s 
yourself.” 

“ Which makes me think,” continued Agenor, 
yielding, like the crow in the fable, to the magic 
of praise, “ that they are two travellers, of whom 
the one is rich and of high quality, journeying to- 
wards some distant town, and that the rich lady 
of rank has assumed that garb, and imagined that 
disguise, to avoid tempting the cupidity of thieves 
and the lewdness of soldiers.” 

“ Wait, sir, wait,” resumed Musaron, taking the 
place he was used to in the conversation ; “ may 
not she be one of those women whom the gipsies 
sell, and whose beauty they are careful of, just as 
horse-dealers dress and adorn the high-priced 
horses whom they lead from town to town ? ” 

The initiation of thought and the plan of rea- 
soning belonged that evening decidedly to Musa- 
ron. Therefore Ag4nor laid down his arms, thus 
; giving to understand by his silence, that he ac- 
knowledged himself beaten. 

The fact is, that Agenor, seduced, as every man 
of twenty-five, even with love at the bottom of 
his heart, must needs be by the sight of a pretty 
foot and a charming face, fell back into himself 
somewhat discontented at the bottom of his soul. 
For the opinion of the ingenious Musaron might 
be a sound one, and the mysterious beauty be no 

I other than an adventuress, running across the 
country in the train of a troop of gipsies, and 
dancing, with her adorable white and delicate feet, 
the egg or the rope dance. 

One thing only had conflicted with this proba- 
bility: the respect both men and women had 
shown to the unknown; but Musaron in the ar- 
! gumentation of which the logic caused the knight 
to despair, had recalled some instances of merry- 
andrews very deferential for the favorite monkey 
of their company, or for the principal actor gain- 

I ing the strolling troops subsistence. 

The knight floated vexatiously in uncertainty, 
until sleep, that sweet companion of fatigue, took 
from him that faculty of thought which he had 
been using immoderately for some hours. 

About four o’clock in the morning, the first 
beams of day cast a violet mantle over the walls 
of the grotto, and by their light Musaron awoke. 
Musaron aroused his master. 

Agenor opened his eyes, collected his spirits, 
and rau to the crevice of the rock. 

But Musaron shook his head, which signified 
that he had been there on the first instance. 

“ There is no one there,” he muttered : “ no one.” 


In fact it was now light enough in the neigh- 
boring grotto, exposed to the rays of the rising 
sun, to distinguish objects ; the grotto was evident- 
ly deserted. 

The gipsy, a more early riser than the knight, 
had 'absconded with her companions; coffer, bal- 
sams, perfumes, all had disappeared. 

Musaron, always occupied with matter-of-fact 
concerns, proposed to breakfast; but before he 
had developed the advantages of his proposition, 
he had gained the crest of the mountain ; and from 
the height where, like a bird of prey, he was 
perched, he could discover the sinuosities of the 
mountain and the blue expanse of the valley. 

On a platform, three quarters of a league about, 
from the height where Agenor w r as stationed, one 
might, with the vision of a bird such as lie filled 
the place of, discern an ass, on which one person 
was riding, while three others were going on foot. 

These four persons, who, notwithstanding the 
distance, were descried with some exactness by 
Agenor, could be no other than the four gipsies, 
wiio, regaining the road which the two travellers 
had taken the day preceding, appeared to follow 
the path which had been pointed out to Musaron 
as leading to Soria. 

“ Come, come, Musaron,” he cried, “ to horse, 
and spur on ! They are our birds of the night — 
let us see what is their plumage by day.” 

Musaron, who felt within himself that he had 
many things to atone for, brought the knight his 
horse ready saddled, mounted his own. and follow- 
ed Agenor, who put his steed to the gallop in si- 
lence. 

In half an hour both were three hundred paces 
from the gipsies, Vhom a clump of trees moment- 
arily concealed from them. 


CHAPTER XXXY. 

THE QUEEN OF THE GIPSIES. 

The gipsies had turned round two or three times, 
which proved that if they had been seen by the 
two travellers they had also seen them, which in- 
duced Musaron to" suggest, but with unaccustom- 
ed timidity, the opinion that when the clump of 
trees was once turned, the little troop would no 
longer be perceived, as it would have disappeared 
in some road as of its own accord. 

Musaron was not in a happy vein as to supposi- 
tions, for when the clump was past the gipsies 
were seen quietly pursuing their road. 

However, Agenor remarked a change which had 
taken place; the woman whom he had seen afar 
off on the ass and whom he had not doubted to be 
the woman with white feet and the handsome face 
— this woman was going on foot, confounded with 
her companions, without her offering anything 
more remarkable than the others in her figure 
and demeanor. 

“ Halloa!” cried Agenor, “ halloa! good people.” 

The men turned round, and they carried their 
hand to their waist, to which a long cutlass was 
hanging. 

“ My lord ? ” said the always prudent Musaron, 
“ did you see? ” 

“ Perfectly,” replied Agenor. 

Then turning to the gipsies: 

“Oh! oh!” said he, “fear nothing. I come 
with friendly dispositions, and I am happy to tell 
you, en passant, my brave fellows, that were it 
otherwise, your cutlasses would be. poor offensive 


142 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OE MAULEON. 


arms against my shield and cuirass, and poor 
defensive arms against my lance and sword. Now, 
this being laid down, where are you going, my 
masters ?” 

One of the men knit his brow and was about to 
reply with some harsh expresssion, but the other 
stopped him forthwith, and, quite on the contrary, 
politely replied: 

— “ Is it in order that we may show you the road 

that you follow us, my lord?” 

“ Certainly,” said Agenor, “ without mention- 
ing the desire which we have to be honoured by 
your company?” 

Musaron made a most significant grimace. 

“ Well ! my lord,” replied the polite gipsy, 
M we ane going to Soria.” 

“ Thank you, that is a very happy coincidence ; 
it is also to Soria that we are going.” 

“ Unfortunately,” said the gipsy, “your lord- 
ship travels faster than poor pedestrians. 

“ I have heard,” replied Agenor, “ that people 
of your nation might vie in fleetness with the 
swiftest horses.” 

“ That is possible,” replied the gipsy; “but not 
when they have two old women with them.” 

Agenor and Musaron exchanged a glance, 
which Musaron accompanied with a grimace. 

“ ’Tis true,” said Agenor, “ and you travel but 
with a poor equipment. How can the women who 
accompany you bear so much fatigue?” 

“ They are accustomed to it, senor, and that for 
a long time, for they are our mothers; we gipsies 
are born to misfortune.” 

“ Ah ! your mothers,” said Agenor ; “ poor 
women ! ” 

For an instant the knight feared lest the beau- 
tiful gipsy had taken another road; but almost 
immediately he reflected on the woman whom he 
had seen mounted on the ass, and who had only 
alighted on perceiving himself. The steed was a 
humble one, but it sufficed to preserve from fatigue 
those little delicate and perfumed feet which he 
had seen the day before. 

He approached the women ; they doubled their 
pace. 

“ Let one of your m others,” said he, “ mount 
the ass, the other shall get up oil my crup- 
per.” 

“ The ass is laden with our baggage,” said the 
gipsy, “ and has quite enough to do as it is. . As 
to your horse, senor, your excellency must jest, 
no doubt, as it is too noble and too spirited a steed 
for a poor old gipsy woman.” 

Agenor, during this colloquy, was scrutinising 
the two women, and on the feet of one he recog- 
nised the deer-skin half-boot which he had re- 
marked the day before. 

“ ’Tis she!” he murmured, certain this time that 
he was not deceived. “ Come, come, good mother in 
the blue veil, accept the offer I make you; get up 
mi my crupper, and If your ass carries weight 
sufficiently well, your companion shall mount be- 
hind my squire.” 

“ Thanks, senor,” replied the gipsy, with a 
voice the harmony of which dispelled the last 
doubts remaining in the mind of the knight. 

“ In truth,” said Agenor, with an ironical ac- 
cent, which made the two women tremble, and the 
men clutch their knives, “that is a sweet voice for 
an old woman.” 

“ Senor !” said the gipsy, who had not yet 
spoken, in an angry voice. 

“Oh! don’t vex yourself,” rejoined Agenor, 
<■ lmly. “ If, by your companion’s voice I guess 
)nr to be young, and if, by the thickness of her 


veil, I guess her to be beautiful, that is no reason 
for clutching hold of a knife.” 

The two men stepped forward, as if to protect 
their companion. 

“ Stop!” said the young woman imperiously. 

The two men stopped. 

“ You are right, senor,” she said. “ I am 
young, and who knows perhaps even I am beau- 
tiful. But how does that interest you, I must 
ask, and why should you trouble me in my 
journey because 1 am twenty or twenty-five years 
younger than I appear?” 

Agenor in fact had remained motionless at the 
accents of that voice which revealed the superior 
woman accustomed to command. Thus the edu- 
cation and character of the unknown were in 
harmony m ith her beauty. 

“ Senora,” stammered the young man, “ you 
are not mistaken, I am a knight.”* 

“ You are a knight, so be it; but I am not a 
senora. I am a poor gipsy; a little less ugly 
perhaps than the women of my race.” 

Agenor made a gesture signifying his disbelief. 

“ Have you ever seen the wives of lords travel- 
ling on foot?” asked the unknown. 

“ Oh ! this is a bad reason,” replied Agenor, 
“ for it is but an instant since you were upon the 
ass’s back.” 

“ I grant it,” replied the young woman ; “ but 
at least you will confess that my dress is not that 
of a lady of quality.” 

“Ladies of quality sometimes disguise them- 
selves, madame, when they have a motive for 
wishing to pass as women of low condition.” 

“ Do you believe,” said the gipsy, “ that a woman 
of quality, accustomed to silk and velvet, would 
consent to enclose her feet in such a covering as 
that?” And she showed her half-boot of deer 
skin. 

“ Shoesf are taken off in the evening; and the 
delicate foot tired by the day’s journey becomes 
refreshed by perfumes.” 

If the traveller’s veil had been raised, Agenor 
might have seen the blood^mantling her face and 
the fire of her eyes glowing amid a circle of 
purple. 

“ Perfumes,” she murmured, looking anxiously 
at her companion, while Musaron, who had not lost 
a word of the dialogue, gave a sly smile. 

Agenor did not try to confuse her any further. 

“ Madame,” said he, “ a very agreeable perfume 
exhales from your person ; that is what I meant 
to say, and nothing further.” 

“ I thank you for the compliment, sir knight. 
But since that is what you mean to say, and that 
only, you ought to be satisfied now that you have 
said it.” 

“ That means that you order me to withdraw, 
does it not, madam?” 

“ That means that I recognise you, sir knight, 
as a Frenchman, by your accent, and above all 
by your remarks. Now it is dangerous to travel 
with Frenchmen, when one is only a poor young 
woman very sensible to courtesy.” 

“ Then you insist that I should leave you?” 

“ Yes, sir knight, to my great regret, but I 
insist ” 

The two servants on this reply of their mistress 
appeared ready to give effect to her decision. 

“ I will obey, senora,” said Agenor ; “ not, be- 

* Unless the dignity of knight is to be implied in the 
title senor there appears an oversight here. — Translator 

t It is a defect in the English language that t ieie is no 
equivalent for the word “ cljaussure.” implying ev t kind 
of covering for the feet. — T ranslator, 


THE TRON HAND: OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 143 


lieve me, oijl account of the threatening air of your 
two companions, whom I should like to meet in 
less good company than yours, that I might teach 
them not to lay hold of their knives so often, but 
on account of the obscurity in which you wrap 
yourself, and which, doubtless, serves some pro- 
ject which I do not wish to thwart.” 

“You thwart no project, you risk the unveiling of 
no obscurity, I assure you,’’ said the fair traveller. 

“Enough, madam,” said Agenor; “besides,” 
he added, somewhat galled by the little effect 
which his good looks had produced; “besides, the 
slowness of your pace would prevent me from 
arriving as speedily as the urgency of the case 
requires, at the king, Don Pedro’s court.” 

“ Ah ! you are going to the court of Don 
Pedro?” exclaimed the young woman, with viva- 
city. 

“ I am so, senora, and I take my leave of you, 
wishing all manner of prosperity to your amiable 
person.” 

The young woman appeared to take a sudden 
resolution, and raised her veil. 

The coarseness of the frame served only to set 
off the beauty of the face and the elegance of the 
features ; she had a winning look and a laughing 
mouth. 

Agenor stopped his horse, which had already 
made a pace forward. 

“ I see, sir, ’ said she, “ that you are a delicate 
and di« :reet knight, for you have guessed, perhaps, 
who I am, and yet you have not persecuted me, as 
another would have done in your place.” 

“I did not guess who you were, madame; but 
I guessed what you were not.” 

“ Well! sir knight, as you are so courteous,” 
said the fair traveller, “ I will tell you the whole 
truth.” 

At these words the two servants exchanged 
looks of astonishment; but the pretended gipsy 
continued, with a smile. 

“ I am the wife of one of Don Pedro’s officers, 
and having been nearly a year separated from 
my husband, who followed the prince to France, I 
am trying to rejoin him at Soria; now you know 
that the soldiers of both parties are in the field, 
and I should be an important capture for those of 
the pretender; I have, therefore, taken this dis- 
guise to escape from them until I have rejoined 
my husband.” 

“Very well,” said Agenor, convinced now of 
the. young woman’s veracity. “ W ell, senora, I 
should have offered you my services but for the 
exigencies of my mission, which requires the 
greatest celerity.” 

“ Listen, sir,” said the beautiful traveller; “ now 
that you know who I am, and I who you are, I 
will go as quickly as you please, if you will 
permit me to place myself under your protection, 
and to travel with your escort” 

“Ah! ah!” said" Agenor, “you have changed 
your opinion, madame?” 

“Yes, senor; I have reflected that I might 
meet people as clear-sighted, and less courteous, 
than yourself.” 

“ Then, madame, how shall we manage, unless 
you accept my first proposition?” 

“ Oh ! do not judge my least by his appear- 
ance; humble as he is, my ass, like your horse, 
is one of breeding; it comes from the stables of 
Don Pedro, and might sustain a comparison with 
the fleetest courser.” 

“ But your followers, madame?” 

“ Could not your squire take my nurse on his 
crupper? my servants will follow on foot.” 


“It would be better, madame, for you to leave 
your ass to your two servants, who would make 
use of it by turns, for your nurse, as you propose, 
to mount behind my squirt, and yourself, as I 
said, behind me. Thus we should make a res- 
pectable troop.” 

“Well, it shall be as you say,” said the lady. 
And almost immediately, with the lightness of a 
bird, the fair traveller vaulted on the crupper of 
Agenor’s horse. 

The two men placed the nurse in her turn 
behind Musaron, who smiled no longer. 

One of the two men mounted on the other, the 
other took it by the crupper of which he made 
a support, and all went off at a brisk trot. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

HOW AGENOR AND THE FAIR UNKNOWN JOUR- 
NEYED TOGETHER, AND OF THE THINGS THEY 

SAID ON THE WAY. 

It is very difficult for two young, good looking, 
and lively beings, who hold in one embrace and 
partake on the same beast the jolting and in- 
equalities of the road — it is difficult for such beings, 
we say, not to become quickly intimate. 

The young woman began by questions; she 
had the right, as a woman, to do so. 

“ Thus, sir knight,” she said, “ I guessed 
rightly, and you are a Frenchman.” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“And you are going to Soria?” 

“ Oh! that you did not guess; I told you so.” 

“ Agreed. To offer, no doubt, your services to 
the king, Don Pedro? ’ 

Agenor reflected before replying categorically 
to this question, that he was conducting this 
woman to Soria, that he should see the king 
before she did; and that, consequently, he had no 
indiscretion to dread; besides, he had many things 
to say before telling the truth. 

“ Madam,” said he, “ this time you are mis- # . 
taken. I am not going to offer my services to 
Don Pedro, as I am a follower of Prince Henry 
of Transtamara, or rather of the constable, 
Bertrand Duguesclin, and am bearing to the 
vanquished king propositions of peace ” 

“To the vanquished king!” exclaimed the 
young woman, with a haughty accent, which she 
immediately suppressed and modified into sur- 
prise. 

“ Vanquished, no doubt,” replied Agenor, since 
his competitor has been crowned king in his 
stead.” 

“Ah! ’tis true,” said the young woman, care- 
lessly ; “• then you are bearing to the conquered 
monarch propositions of peace?” 

“ Which he will do well to accept,” resumed 
Agenor, “ for his cause is lost.” 

“You think so?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“Why so?” 

“Because ill surrounded; and, above all, ill- 
advised as he is, it is impossible that he should 
resist.” 

“ 111 surrounded?” 

“No doubt: his subjects, his friends, his mis- 
tress, every one around him b^*~ay, plunder, and 
urge him to evil.” 

“ Thus his subjects ?” 

“Abandon him.” 

“ His friends ?” 

“ Plunder him.” 


/ 

144 THE TRON HAND: OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ And his mistress?” said the young woman, 
with hesitation. 

“ His mistress urges him to evil,” replied 
Agenor. 

The young woman frowned, and something 
like a cloud passed over her forehead. 

“ You. mean, no doubt, to speak of the Moorish 
woman?” she asked. 

“ What Moorish woman?” 

“ The king’s new passion.” 

“ What is your meaning,” asked Agenor, his 
eyes sparkling in their turn. 

“ Have you no* heard,” asked the young 
woman, “ that the king, Don Pedro, is madly in 
love with the Moor Mothril’s daughter?” 

“ Witfi Aissa?” exclaimed the knight. 

“ You know her?” said the young woman. 

“ No doubt.” 

“ How, then, can you be ignorant that the infa- 
mous misbeliever is trying to push her into the 
king’s bed.” 

“A moment!” exclaimed the knight, turning 
round, pale as death, towards his companion; “a 
moment; do not speak thus of Ai'ssa, unless you 
wish our friendship to die before it is born.” 

“But how would you, senor, that I should 
speak otherwise, since I tell you nothing but truth ? 
This Moresca is, or is about to become, the 
avowed mistress of the king, since he accompanies 
her everywhere, walks by the door of her litter, 
since he gives her concerts, fetes, and brings his 
court around her.” 

“You know all that?” said Agenor, in a 
tremor, for he remembered the report which the 
alcalde had made to Musaron; “this journey of 
Don Pedro, by Ai'ssa’s side, is then true?” 

“ I know many things, sir knight,” said the 
fair traveller; “ for we people of the king’s house- 
hold soon learn all the news.” 

“ Oh ! madam, you wound me to the heart,” 
said Agenor Youth in him unfolded all its 
flowers, composed of the two most delicate sub* 
stances of the soul — credulity to listen and candour 
fh discourse.* 

“I wound you to the heart!” said the fair tra- 
veller; “ do you then, perchance, know this 
woman?” 

“Alas! I love her to distraction, madam,” said 
the knight in despair. 

The young woman made a gesture of com- 
passion. 

“ But she,” she said, “ does not love you?” 

“ She told me that she loved me. That traitor 
Mothril must have employed with her either force 
or magic!” 

“ He is a great villain,” said the young woman, 
coolly, “ and one who has already done the king 
much harm. But with what view do you think 
that he acts?” 

“ It is very plain; he wishes to supplant Donna 
Maria Padilla.” 

“ Then that is your opinion also?” 

“ Assuredly, madam.” 

“ But,” resumed the lady, “ it is said that Donna 
Maria is much in love with the king; do you be- 
lieve that she will suffer Don Pedro to abandon 
her thus.” 

“ She is a woman, she is w^eak, she will fall as 
Donna Bianca fell, but the death of the one was a 
murder, the death of the other will be an expia- 
tion.” 

♦ La naYvetS pour parler. NaTvet.6 is instinctive 
candour mixed with simp licity, and is one of those words 
which have no ex^ct equivalent in English. 


“ An expiation! Then, according to your opinion 
Maria Padilla has something to expiate ?’* 

“ I do not speak according to my own opinion 
only, madam but that of all the world.” 

“ Then you think that Maria Padilla will not 
be pitied, as they pitied Blanche of Bourbon?” 

“ Certainly not; although when both are dead, 
it is probable that the mistress will have been un 
happy as the wife.” 

“ Then you pity her for your part?” 

“Yes; although I should pity her less than any 
one.” 

“ And why so?” asked the young woman, fix- 
ing on Agenor her large black eyes. 

“ Because it was she, they say, who counselled 
the king to assassinate Don Frederick, and be- 
cause Don Frederick was my friend.” 

“ Are you perchance,” asked the young woman, 
“ the French knight to whom Don Frederick as- 
signed a rendezvous?” 

“Yes, and to whom the dog brought his master’s 
head.” 

“Sir knight! sir knight!” exclaimed the young 
woman, grasping Agenor’s wrist, “ listen well to 
me: on the salvation of her soul, on the part that 
Maria Padilla hopes for in Paradise, it was not 
she who gave this counsel to the king, it was 
Mothril.” 

“ But she knew that the murder was about to 
take place, and she did not oppose it.” 

The lady was silent. 

“It is enough cause for God to punish her, or 
rather she will be punished by Don Pedro* him- 
self. Who knows whether it is not because his 
brother’s blood has passed between him and that 
woman, that he already loves her less. ” 

“ Perhaps you are in the right,” said the un- 
known, with a sonorous voice; “but patience! pa- 
tience!” 

“You appear to hate Mothril, madame?” 

“Mortally.” 

“What has he done to you?” 

“ He has done to me what he has done to every 
Spaniard; he has alienated -the king from his 
people.” 

“ Women rarely devote to a man, for a political 
cause, such a hatred as you appear to have vowed 
against Mothril.” 

“ It is also because I have personal reason to 
complain of him : during a month ne has prevented 
me from rejoining my husband.” 

“ How has he done that?” 

“ He has established such a system of inspection 
around the king, Don Pedro, that no message nor 
messenger can reach him, or those who attend 
him; thus I have dispatched to my husband two 
emissaries w r ho have not returned; so that I am 
ignorant whether I can enter Soria, or whether 
you yourself ” 

“ Oh, I shall be able to enter, for I come as an 
ambassador.” 

The young woman shook her head ironically. 
“You will enter if it so please him,” she said w T ith a 
voice rendered hoarse by strong internal emotion. 

Agenor extended his hand and showed the ring 
which Henry of Transtamara had given him. 

“ This is my talisman,” said he. 

It >vas an emerald rmg of which the stone was 
held by two E’sf intertwined. 

* There is no mutual exclusion in these \ro ideas. 
Translator. 

+ This might be supposed to stand for the initial letter of 
the name of ‘ Enrique.’ but it seems it is that for Ele •< a, 
the name of the Princes’ mother, or for those names at r- 
i.wined. 


TfTK IRON HAND: OR. THE KNTTRHT OF MAULEON. 


1 45 



“ Yes, in fact,” said the young woman, “ perhaps 
you may succeed in forcing the guard.” 

“ If I succeed in forcing the guard you will 
succeed also, for you belong to my suite, and they 
r will respect you.” 

“ You promise me then, that, if you enter, I shall 
I enter with you?” 

“ I swear it to you, on my knightly faith.” 

“Well! I adjure you, in exchange for that oath, 
to tell me whatever will most please you at this 
moment?” 

“Alas, what I most desire, you cannot grant 
me.” 

“ Say on, what matters.” 

“ If I get into the town, you shall see her and 
t 1 speak to her.” 

“Thanks; oh, how grateful I will be to you.” 

*' Who tells you that you will not, after ail, have 
done far more for me?’’ 

“ Yet, it is life which you restore me.” 

9 


“ And you will have restored me more than life,” 
said the young woman with a peculiar smile. 

As on finishing this interchange of confessions 
and ratifying this treaty of alliance, they arrived 
at the village where they were to stop, the fair 
traveller lightly vaulted down from Agenor's 
horse, and as this association of Christians and 
gipsies might be remarked upon as singular, they 
agreed to meet again next day on the road about 
a league from the village. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE VAItLET. 

On the morrow, although the knight rose v^ry 
early, ho * yet found, at a league from the vifiage, 
the gipsies breakfasting at a fountain, at the dia- 
, t&nce agreed on from the spot he had just left* 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


J45 


The same arrangements were made as the pre- 
ceding day, and the same order of mareh resumed. 

The day passed in conversation, in which Musa- 
ron and the nurse took an active part; yet not- 
withstanding all that was graceful and varied in 
the conversation of these two important personages, 
we shall abstain from reporting it, Musaron hav- 
ing only succeeded in learning from the old woman 
w hat t he young one had said the day before. 

At last they arrived within sight of Soria. It 
was a town of the second order; but at that war- 
like epoch even second-rate towns were surrounded 
with walls. * 

“ Madam,” said Agenor, “there is the town; if 
you think that the Moor is as watchful as you said, 
do not think he will confine his inspection to gates 
and wickets; he will have scouts in the plain. I 
therefore recommend you to commence taking 
jour precautions now.” 

“ I was thinking of doing so,” said the young 
woman, looking around her as if to reconnoitre 
the localities; “and if you will ride forward with 
your squire, so as however not to go too fast, my 
precautions shall be taken before a quarter of an 
hour lias elapsed.” 

Agenor obeyed. The young woman alighted, 
leading her nurse into the depth of a thicket, while 
the two men remained guarding the road. 

“ Come, come, do not turn your head round so, 
sir squire, and imitate the discretion of your mas- 
ter,” said the nurse to Musaron, who resembled 
one of those damned souls in Dante, whose dislo- 
cated head always looks backward, while their 
bodies walk forward. 

But notwithstanding this warning, Musaron 
could not persuade himself tq turn his eyes else- 
where, so invincible was his curiosity. 

In fact hehad seen the two women disappear, as we 
have said, in a grove of chesnut trees and holm oaks. 

“ Decidedly, sir,” said he to Agenor, when ho 
was well con vinced that his eyes could not pierce 
the leafy veil in which the women had wrapped 
themselves, “ decidedly I am very imiich afraid that 
our companions, instead of being great ladies as we 
have supposed, will, after all, turn out to be nothing 
but gipsies. 

Unfortunately for Musaron, that was no longer 
his master’s opinion. 

“ You are a babbler, rendered bold by my good 
nature,” said Agenor; “hold your peace.” 

Musaron was silent. 

After a few minutes journey at so slow a pace 
that they scarcely made half a quarter of a league, 
they heard a shrill and prolonged cry; it was the 
nurse who was calling them. They turned round 
and saw a young man coming towards them, dressed 
in theSpanish fashion, and bearing on his left shoul- 
der the little cloak of a varletof horses : he was mak- 
ingsigns with his hat that they were to wait for him. 
In an instant he was close to them. 

“ Here I am, sir knight,” said he to Agenor, 
who, with much surprise, recognised his travelling 
companion; her black hair was hidden under a 
light wig, her shoulders, which seemed broader 
under the cloak, appeared to belong to a lusty 
youth, her step was bold, her complexion even 
appeared browner since she had changed the 
colour of her hair. 

“ Yon see that my precautions are taken,” con- 
tinued the young woman, and your varlet may, with- 
out difficulty, 1 think, enter the town with you.” 

And she jumped with the agility which Agenor 
had already remarked, behind Musaron. 

“ But your nurse?” asked the knight. 

44 She will remain with my two male servants at 


he neighbouring village, until the time comes for 
ffieir rejoining me.” 

44 Then all is well; let us enter the town.” 

Musaron and the varlet preceded their master, 
who went straight towards the principal gate of 
Soria, which was already perceived at the end of 
an avenue of old trees. 

But they had not gone two-thirds the length of 
this avenue, when they were surrounded by a troop 
of Moors, sent against them, as soon as they had. 
been descried by the sentinels on the ramparts. 

Agenor was questioned as to the object of his 
journey. 

No sooner had he declared that his object was 
to have an interview with Don Pedro than the 
troop made them prisoners, and led them to the 
warder of the gate, an officer chosea by Mothril 
himself. 

44 I come,” said Agenor, on being again ques- . 
tioned, 44 on behalf of the constable, Bertrand 
Duguesclin, to confer with your prince.” 

At this name, which all Spain had learnt to 
respect, the officer appeared disquieted. 

“And who are those who accompany you?” he 
asked. 

“You see; my squire and my varlet.* 

“’Tis well, remain here, and I will refer your 
demand to the Senor Mothril.” 

“ Do what you will,” said Agenor; “ but I warn 
you that I do not intend to speak in the first 
instance to the Senor Mothril, nor to any other 
than the king, Don Pedro; beware, therefore, of 
prolonging an interrogatory, at which I shall 
take offence.” 

The officer bowed. 

“ You are a knight,” he said, “and, as such, you 
must know that the commands of a chief must be 
implicitly obeyed; I must perform what I am 
enjoined to do.” 

Then turning round — 

“ Go and acquaint his highness, the prime 
minister, that a stranger desires to s^eak with 
the king on behalf of the constable, Bertrand 
Duguesclin.” 

Agenor turned his eyes towards his varlet, whom 
he found looking very pale and anxious. Mu- 
saron, more accustomed to adventures, did not 
tremble for so little. 

“ Comrade,” said he to the young woman, “ I will 
tell you how your precautions will succeed; you 
will be recognised in spite of your disguise, and 
we shall both be hung as your accomplices; but 
what does it matter, if it suits my master to have 
it so.” 

The unknown smiled — a moment had sufficed 
her to recover her presence of mind — a proof 
that she also was not wholly a stranger to peril. 

She sat down a few paces from Agenor, and 
appeared wholly indifferent to whatever was 
about to take place. 

The travellers having passed through two or 
three rooms full of soldiery, were at that moment 
in a guard-room, situated in the most solid part 
of a tower, and which had but one doorway. 

All eyes were fixed on this door by which 
Mothril was expected to enter from one moment 
to another. 

Agenor continued conversing with the officer; 
Musaron engaged in conversation with some 
Spaniards who spoke to him of the constable, and 
of their friends, in the service of Don Henry of 
Transtamara. 

The varlet was also laid hold of by the pag'S 
of the governor, who led him up and dowm like a 
boy of no account. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


147 


Mauleon was the only person watched with 
real care; and he had, by his courtesy, put the 
officer’s command completely at his ease; besides, 
what could one man do against two hundred. 

The Spanish officer offered fruits and wine to 
the French knight: the governor’s attendants 
; crossed the ranks of guards to wait on him. 

“My master is accustomed to take nothing, 
unless from my hands,” said the young varlet; 
and he accompanied the pages to the apartments. 

At the moment the sentinel was heard calling 
the guard to arms, and the cry of “ Mothril! Mo- 
th ril ! ” resounded through the depths of the guard 
room. 

All rose up. 

Agdno'r felt a shudder pass through his veins. 
He lowered his visor, and through its iron bars 
sought to discover the young varlet to reassure 
him ; he was no longer there. 

“ Where is our travelling companion ? ” asked 
Agenor of Musaron, in a whisper. 

Musaron replied in French with perfect calm- 
ness. 

“ My lord, she thanks you much for the service 
you have done her in procuring her entry into 
Soria; she has charged me to tell you that she is 
extremely grateful for it, and that you will soon 
perceive the proof that she is so.” 

“What are you saying?” said Agenor, with 
surprise. 

“ What she told me to let you know on leaving.” 

“ On leaving! ” 

“ Faith, yes,” said Musaron, “ she has gone. An 
eel would glide less quickly through the meshes of 
a net than she has passed through the guards of 
the post. I saw from afar the plume of her white 
cap flying through the shade; then, as I have 
learned nothing since, I presume that she is saved.” 

“ God be praised ! ” said Agenor, “ but be si- 
lent.” 

In fact, the footsteps of a great number of 
horsemen resounded through the neighboring 
rooms. 

Mothril entered hurriedly. 

“ What is it ? ” asked the Moor, casting round 
him a clear and penetrating look. 

“ This knight,” said the officer of the tower, 
“ sent by Missire Bertrand Duguesclen, constable 
of France, wishes to speak with the king, Don 
'Pedro.” 

Mothril approached Agenor, who, with his visor 
lowered, appeared an iron statue. 

“ Look at this,” said Agenor, drawing off his 
gauntlet, and showing the emerald ring which the 
1 prince had given him as a passport. 

“ What is that? ” asked Mothril. 

“ An emerald ring, which comes from Donna 
Eleanora, the mother of the prince.” 

Mothril bowed. 

“ What, then, are your wishes ? ” 

“ I will tell them to the king.” 

“ You desire to see his highness? ” 

“ I insist on it.” 

“ You use high language, sir knight. ” 

1 “ 1 speak in the name of my master, the king, 
Don Henry of Transtamara.” 

“ Then you will wait in this fortress.” 

“I will wait. But I warn you I wait not long.” 

I Mothril smiled ironically, 
i “ Good, sir knight,” said he, “ wait then.” 

And he left, after bowing to Agenor, whose 
eves darted glances of fire through the iron bars 
of his helmet. 

“ Keep a good watch,” whispered Mothril to 

: 


the officer, “ they are important prisoners, and you 
will be responsible for their safe custody to me.” 

“ How shall I dispose of them ? ” 

“I will tell you to-morrow; in the meantime, 
let him have no communication with any one. 
Do you hear? ” 

The officer bowed. 

“ Decidedly,” said Musaron, with the greatest 
calmness, “ I think we are lost, and that this 
stone box will serve as our coffin.” 

“ What a capital opportunity I had for strang- 
ling the miscreant!” exclaimed Agenor; “if I 
had only not been an ambassador,” lie muttered. 

“One of the drawbacks of greatness,” said Mu- 
saron, philosophically. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE ORANGE BRANCH. 

Agenor and his squire passed a very ill night 
in their provisional prison. The officer, in obedi- 
ence to Mothril’s orders, had not made his appear- 
ance again. 

Mothril had intended to return the following 
morning, having been acquainted with the cap- 
ture of the prisoners at the moment he was 
about to accompany Don Pedro to a bull-fight; 
he had all the night before him to think of what 
he had to do; then if nothing was determined on 
in his mind, a second interrogatory would decide 
the fate both of the ambassador and his squire. 

It is possible that the envoy of the constable 
might be authorized by Mothril to appear in Don 
Pedro’s presence, but only in case Mothril had 
previously, by some means or other, learned the 
object of his mission. 

The great secret of political improvisatores is 
generally to know in advance the matters on 
which they are about to improvise. 

On quitting the two prisoners, Mothril took, 
therefore, the road to the amphitheatre, where, as 
we have said, the king, Don Pedro, was giving his 
court the spectacle of a bull-fight. 

This exhibition, which generally takes place at 
day, was, on this occasion, given by night, which 
doubled its magnificence; three thousand flam- 
beaux of perfumed wax illumined the arena. 

Aissa, seated on the king’s right hand, and 
surrounded by courtiers, who adored in her the 
new star in favor; A’fesa looked without seeing, 
and listened wuthout understanding. 

The king, gloomy and preoccupied, questioned 
the countenance of the young girl, to read there 
that hope wdiich w r as constantly awakened by the 
unchanging paleness of that clear forehead, and 
the fixedness of those eyes of veiled glow. 

Don Pedro, that untamed heart, that fiery tem- 
perament, resembled the courser held in by the 
curb, and whose impatience bursts forth in quiv- 
erings of which beholders vainly seek the cause. 

Then suddenly his forehead became darkened. 

It was that while looking on the young girl’s 
icy features his thoughts turned to the ardent 
mistress whom he had left at Sevilla — to that Ma- 
ria Padilla — whom Mothril said was as faithless 
and changeable as fortune; and who, by her 
silence made Mothril’s supposition reasonable, 
there was a twofold suffering in that present cold- 
ness of Aissa, and that by-gone love of Donna 
Maria. 

Then as he thought of that woman, for whom 


THE IKON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


149 


r e had an adoration so deep, that it was attributed 
to magic, a bitter sigh burst from his breast, and, 
like the blast of a tempest, caused all the fore- 
heads of the attentive courtiers to be lowered. 

It was at one of these moments that Mothril 
entered the royal box, to learn, by a scrutinizing 
glance, what was the mental state of its tenants. 

He understood that a storm was raging in Don 
Pedro’s breast; he guessed that ATssa’s coldness 
was the cause, and he cast a look of menace and 
hatred on the young girl, who remained perfectly 
calm, although she had well understood him. 

“Ah! there you are, Mothril,” said the king: 
“ you come out of season. I am wearied.” * 

The intonation with which these words were 
pronounced, almost gave them the sonorous fero- 
city of a roar. 

“ I bring your highness news,” said Mothril. 

“ Important? ” 

“No doubt; should I trouble my king upon 
trifling matters ? ” 

“ Speak then.” 

The minister leaned towards Don Pedro’s ear. 

“ The matter concerns an embassy which the 
French are about to send you.” 

“ See, Mothril,” said the king, without appear- 
ing to understand what the Moor was saying; 
“see how Aissa is displeased with our court. 
Keally I think you would do well to send back 
this young girl to her country, Africa, which she 
appears so much to regret.” 

“Your highness is mistaken,” said Mothril; 
“ Aissa was born in Granada, and not knowing 
the country of her ancestors, which she never saw, 
she cannot regret it.” 

“ Does she then regret anything else ? ” said 
Don Pedro, growing pale. 

“ I think not.” 

“ But then, had she nothing to regret, she would 
act differently from what she does ; at sixteen years 
of age, one should talk, laugh, and live; truly, 
this young girl appears dead.” 

“ You know, sir, that none are so grave, none so 
chaste and reserved as the young girls of the east: 
for, as I have told you, although born at Granada, 
she is of the pure blood of the prophet: Aissa 
bears on her forehead a painful crown — that of 
misfortune — not for her, therefore, are the careless 
smile, the wordy hilarity of the woman of Spain ; 
having never heard laughing or talking about her, 
she cannot do like a Spanish girl, and give back 
the echo of a noise she does not know.” 

Don Pedro bit his lips, and fixed his glowing 
eye on Aissa. 

“One day does not change a woman,” contin- 
ued Mothril; “ and those who hold long to their 
dignity, hold also long to their affection. Donna 
Maria almost offered herself to you, and Donna 
Maria has forgotten you.” 

At the moment Mothril pronounced these words 
a branch of orange flowers, thrown from the 
higher galleries, fell on Don Pedro’s knees with 
the directness of an arrow aimed to the mark. He 
leant forward to see where the missive came from. 

Don Pedro picked up the branch ; a letter was 
attached to it. Mothril made a movement to 
seize it, but Don Pedro extended his hand. 

The courtiers cried out at the insolence. 

^There is, as has been often remarked, no English word 
the least equivalent to etinui. or its corresponding verb and 
adjective, though the thing in England is understood and 
carried t>* a perfection quite proverbial. “Bored” is too 
modern and vulgar to be put into Don Pedro’s mouth. I 
have therefore chosen “wearied” to signify the potent 
verb je m’ennuie.— Translator. 


“ It is to me,” he said, not to you, that the 
note is addressed.” 

And he unfolded the note.' 

At the bare view of the writing, he uttered an 
exclamation; at the first lines he read, his coun- 
tenance cleared up. 

Mothril followed the effects of this perusal with 
anxiety. 

Suddenly, Don Pedro rose up. 

The courtiers rose, ready to accompany the king. 

“Kemain,” said Don Pedro; “the entertain- 
ment is not over; I desire that you will stop.” 

Mothril not knowing what to think of this un- 
expected event, attempted to follow his master. 

“ Kemain ! ” said the king; “ I will it so.” 

Mothril having re-entered the box, remained 
with the courtiers lost in conjectures upon this 
strange occurrence. 

He caused the author of this daring act to be 
sought everywhere ; but the search was ineffectual. 

On his return to the palace, Mothril questioned 
Aissa, but she had neither seen nor remarked 
anything. 

He endeavoured to enter Don Pedro’s apart- 
ment; the doors were closed to all. 

The Moor passed a terrible night. For the first 
time in his life, an event of high importance 
escaped his sagacity; without being able to fix 
any probable foundation for the fear, his presenti- 
ments told him that his influence had just received 
a rude shock. 

Mothril had not yet closed his eyes, when Don 
Pedro caused him to be summoned; he was intro- 
duced to the most remote apartment in the palace. 

Don Pedro left his room to meet the minister, 
and on leaving carefully closed the door after him. 

The king was paler than usual, but it was not 
vexation which gave him that appearance of fa- 
tigue; on the contrary, a smile of intimate satis- 
faction was on his lips, and there was something 
in his look more mild and more joyful than usual. 

He sat down, making a friendly sign of the head 
to Mothril, and yet Mothril thought he remarked 
on his countenance a firmness foreign to their 
general relations. 

“ Mothril,” said he, “ you spoke to me yester- 
day of an embassy sent by the French ? ” 

: “Yes, my lord,” said the Moor, “but as you 
did not reply, ^ did not deem it fit to urge the 
matter further.” 

“ Besides,, you were in no eagerness to confess, 
were you,” resumed Don Pedro, “ that you had 
them shut up during the night in the tower of the 
Lower Gate?' ” 

Mothril trembled. 

“ How do you know it, sire?” he muttered. 

“ I know it ; that is enough ; and all that is im- 
portant. Who are these strangers? ” 

“Frenchmen, as I suppose.” 

“ And why do you shut them up, since they say 
that they are ambassadors? ” 

“ They say so: that is all,” answered Mothril, 
to whom a moment was sufficient to recover his 
self-possession. 

“And you, you affirm the contrary, do you not? ” 

“ Not precisely, sire; for in fact I am ignorant 
whether ” 

“ If the matter is doubtful, you ought not to 
have arrested them.” 

“ Then your highness orders ’ 

“ That they be instantly brought before me.” 

The Moor started back. 

“ But it is impossible,” he said. 

“ By the blond of our Lord, has anything hap- 
pened to them ? ” said Don Pedro 


THE IKON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


149 


“ No, sire.” 

“ Then hasten to repair your fault, for you 
have violated the rights of nations.” 

Mothril smiled. 

He knew the respect which Don Pedro, in his 
hatred had for that right of nations which he 
was invoking at that moment. 

“ I will not allow,” said he, “ that my kin& 
should expose himself without defence to the 
danger which threatens him.” 

“ Fear not for me, Mothril,” said Don Pedro, 
stamping with his foot; “ fear for yourself.” 

“ I have nothing to fear, having nothing to 
reproach myself with,” said Mothril. 

“ Nothing to reproach yourself with, Mothril? 
Keeall your recollections.” 

“ What does your highness mean ? ” 

“ I mean that you love not ambassadors, not 
more those who come from the west, than those 
who come from the east.” 

Mothril began to feel some anxiety; by de- 
grees the examination was taking a threatening 
turn; but as he did not yet know from what 
quarter the attack would come, he held his 
tongue and waited. 

The king continued — 

“ This is the first time that you arrest the 
messengers who are sent to me, Mothril ? ” 

“ The first time ? ” replied the Moor, staking 
all for all. “ a hundred have, perhaps, come, and 
I have not allowed one to pass.” 

The king arose in a fury. 

“If I have committed an error,” continued 
the Moor, “in keeping away fromUhe palace 
of my king, assassins hired by Henry de Trans- 
tamara, or the Constable, Bertrand Duglesclin 
— if I* have sacrificed some innocent among 
so many guilty persons — my head is here to pay 
the fault of my heart.” 

The king sat down, and as he seated himself, 
said : 

“ ’Tis well, Mothril; in favor of the excuse 
which you have given me, and which may be 
true, I pardon you: but let this happen no 
more, and let every messenger sent to me, reach 
me; do you hear? whether he come from Se- 
ville or from Burgos, matters little. As to the 
Frenchmen, that they are really ambassadors I 
know ; consequently I will treat them like am- 
bassadors. Let them, therefore, be instantly led 
from the tower; let them be conducted with the 
honors due to their office, into the best house in 
the town; to-morrow I will receive them in 
solemn audience in the great hall of the palace. 

Mothril bowed his head, and left, crushed by 
surprise and terror. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


Agenor and his faithful squire were deplor- 
ing their condition, each in his own way. 

Musaron was remarking to his master that he 
had foreseen all that happened. 

Agenor replied, that though he had known 
what was to happen, it was not the less his 
duty to perform his mission. 

To which Musaron replied, that some ambas- 
sadors had been seen suspended to gibbets 
somewhat higher, but certainly not less disa- 
greeable than those of smaller dimensions. 

To which Mauleon could find no answer at all. 


The expeditious justice of Don Pedro was 
known — when so little importance is attached 
to men’s lives, action is always quick. 

The two prisoners, therefore, remained occu- 
pied with these gloomy thoughts, and Musaron 
was already examining the stones of the wall, 
to see if none was about to be unfastened, when 
Mothril appeared at the entrance of the guard- 
room, followed by an escort of captains, whom 
he left at the door. 

“ Frenchmen,” said Mothril, “ answer me, do 
not lie; that is if you can speak without lying.” 

“ You^judge others from yourself, Mothril,” 
said Agenor, who, though he did not wish to 
make his position worse by yielding to angry 
impulse, yet felt an instinctive repugnance to 
allow himself to be insulted by the man whom 
he hated beyond all others in the world. 

“ What mean you, dog? ” said Mothril. 

“ You call me dog, because I am a Christian ; 
then your master is a dog also, is he not? ” 

“The retort struck the Moor. 

“ Who speaks of my master and his religion ? ” 
he answered ; “ do not mix your name with his, 
nor think you resemble him, because you adore 
the same God as he does.” 

Agenor sat down, shrugging his shoulders. 

“ Is it to tell me these absurdities, that you 
come, Mothril? ” asked the knight. 

“No, I have questions of importance to ask 
you.” 

“ Go on.” 

“ First Confess how you found means to cor- 
respond with the king.” 

“ With what king? ” asked Agenor. 

“ I only acknowledge one, envoy of the rebels, 
and that is the king, my master,” 

“ Don Pedro. You ask how I have succeeded 
in corresponding with Don Pedro ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ I do not understand you.” 

“ Do you deny having asked an audience with 
the king? ” 

“ No, since I made that demand of yourself.” 

“ Yes, but it was not I who transmitted that 
demand to the king, and yet ” 

“ And yet,” repeated Agenor. 

“He knew of your arrival.” 

“Ah ! ” said Agenor. with a stupefaction which 
was echoed by the stili louder “ ah ! ” of Musa- 
ron. 

“ Then you confess nothing? ” said Mothril. 

“ What would you have me confess? ” 

“ The means by which you have contrived to 
correspond with the king.” 

Agenor shrugged his shoulders a second time. 

“Ask your guards,” said he. 

“ Do not think, Christian, to obtain anything 
from the king, unless with my consent.” 

“Ah ! ” said Agenor, “ I shall see the king, 
then.” 

“ Hypocrite ! ” said Mothril, in a rage. 

“ Good,” said Musaron ; “ it appears that we 
shall not find it necessary to make a hole in the 
wall.” 

“ Silence,” said Agenor. 

Then, turning towards Mothril — 

“ Well,” said he, “ since I shall speak to the 
king, we shall see, Mothril, if my word will have 
as little weight as you suppose.” 

“ Confess what you did to make the king ac- 
quainted with your coming; tell me the condi- 
tions on which you come to propose peace, and 
you shall have all my support.” 

“ Why should I purchase a support of which 


550 


THE IRON TTANR: OR. THE ENTOHT OE MAULEON. 


;our very anger teaches me that I do not stand, 
fn need? ” said Ag£nor with a smile. 

“At least show me your face!” exclaimed 
Mothril, disquieted by that laugh, and by the 
sound of that voice. 

“ You will see me before the king,” said 
Agenor — “ to the king I will speak with my 
face and heart uncovered.” 

Suddenly Mothril struck his forehead and 
looked around the room. 

“ You had a page,” he said. 

“ Yes.” „ 

“ What has become of him ? ” 

“ Seek, ask, question, you have the right to 
do so.” 

“ That is why I question you.” 

“ Let us understand each other — you have 
that right over your officers, your soldiers, and 
your slaves, but not over me.” 

Mothril turned round towards his followers. 

“ There was a page with the Frenchmen,” he 
said; “obtain information as to what has be- 
come of him.” 

There was an instant’s silence while the search 
was being made; each of the three persons 
chiefly concerned waited the result of these in- 
quiries with a different bearing. Mothril, full 
of agitation, walked before the door like a senti- 
nel before his post, or rather like a hyena in its 
den ; Agdnor remained seated, motionless and 
silent; Musaron attentive to all things, was as 
mute as his master, but devoured the Moor 
with his eyes. 

The reply brought was that the page had 
disappeared on the preceding day, and had not 
been seen since. 

“ Is it true?” asked Mothril of Agenor. 

“ Faith ! ” said the knight, “ they are people 
of your own belief who tell it you. Do the in- 
fidels then also lie ? ” 

“ But why did he fly ? ” 

Agenor understood all. 

.“No doubt that he might go and tell the 
king that his master was arrested,” was the 
reply. 

“ One does not so easily reach the king when 
Mothril watches round him.” replied the Moor. 

Then suddenly striking his forehead : 

“Oh! that branch of orange flowers!” he 
said, “ oh, that note!” 

“ The Moor is certainly going mad,” said Mu- 
saron. 

Suddenly Mothril appeared more serene. 
What he had just discovered was.no doubt, less 
terrible than what he had feared at first. 

“Well,” said he, “ I congratulate you on your 
page’s address; the audience you desired is 
granted to you.” 

‘•And for what day ? ” 

“ For to-morrow,” replied Mothril. 

“ God be praised ! ” said Musaron. 

“ But have a care,” continued the Moor, ad- 
dressing the knight, “ lest your interview with 
the king have not the happy termination which 
you hope for.” 

“ I hope for nothing,” said Agenor; “ I come 
to perform a mission — that is all.” 

“Do you wish a piece of advice? ” said Moth- 
ril, assuming an almost insinuating tone of 
voice. 

“ Thanks,” said Agenor. “ From you I wish 
nothing.” 

“Why not?” 

‘ Because I receive nothing from an enemy.” 


These words, the young man in his turn pro- 
nounced with such an expression of hatred that 
the Moor shuddered. 

“ Good ; ” said lie ; “ Frenchmen, adieu ! ” 

“ Adieu, infidel !” said Agenor. 

Mothril went out; he knew, on the whole, 
what he wished to know; the king had been 
informed, but by a channel which inspired little 
fear. It was not what he had dreaded at first. 

Two hours after this interview, a strong body 
of guards came to take Agenor, at the thresh- 
hold of the tower, and escorted him with great 
marks of respect to a house situated on the 
chief place of Soria. 

Vast apartments, furnished with as much 
splendor as possible, were prepared to receive 
the ambassador. 

“ You are now, my lord, envoy of the King of 
France, in your own house,” said the captain. 

“ I am not the envoy of the King of France,” 
said Agenor, “ nor do I deserve being treated 
as such. I am the envoy of the constable, Ber- 
trand Duglesclin.” 

But the captain only answered the knight 
with a bow, and withdrew. 

Musaron went round each room, inspecting 
the carpets, the furniture, the stuffs, and saying 
at each inspection : 

“We are certainly better off here than in the 
tower.” 

While Musaron was going his rounds, the 
chief marshal of the palace entered and asked 
the knight whether he would not make some 
preparation to appear before the king. 

“ None is needful,” said Agenor; “ I have my 
sword, my helmet, and my cuirass; these are 
the soldier’s ornaments, and I am only a soldier 
sent by his captain.” 

The marshal left, ordering the trumpets to 
give a flourish. 

An instant afterwards, a superb horse, cov- 
ered with magnificent housings, was brought to 
the door. 

“I need no other horse than my own.” said 
Agenor; “it has been taken from me, let it be 
returned to me; that is all I wish for.” 

Ten minutes afterwards Ag^nor’s horse was 
restored to him. 

An immense concourse of people lined the 
road, but a very short one, which lay between 
Agtfnor’s house and the king’s palace. The 
young man sought to discover among the wo- 
men crowded on the balconies, the travelling 
companion whom he knew so well. It was a 
vain attempt, from which he soon desisted. 

All the nobility faithful to Don Pedro, formed 
a body of cavalry drawn up in the court of hon- 
our of the palace. Their suits of armour cov- 
ered with gold formed a dazzling spectacle. 

Scarcely had Agenor alighted when he felt 
somewhat bewildered. Events had succeeded 
with so much rapidity that he had not y*et had 
time to reflect on his mission, persuaded ‘as he 
had been, that it would not be fulfilled. 

His tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his 
mouth : he had not a clear idea in his head. All 
his thoughts floated vaguely and undecidedly, 
conflicting like clouds in a foggy autumnal day. 

His entry into the hall of audience was that of 
a blind man, whose sight is suddenly restored 
under a burning ray of the sun, illuming a cloud 
of gold, of purple, and of moving plumes. 

Suddenly a resounding voice wasffieard, a voice 
which he could recognise, having heard pre>h 


THE TBON HAND; OK, THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


151 


ously one night in the garden of Bordeaux, one 
day in the tent of Caverley. 

“ Sir knight,” said that voice, “ you desired to 
speak to tke king; you are now before the king.” 

These words fixed the knight’s eyes on the 
point which they were to embrace. He recog- 
nised Don Pedro. On his right, was a woman 
seated, on his left was Mothril standing. 

Mothril was as pale as death; he had just 
recognised in the knight the lover of Aissa,. 

This inspection had been rapid as thought. 

“ My lord,” said Agenor, “I never believed 
for a single instant, that I was arrested by your 
lordship’s orders.” 

Don Pedro bit his lips. 

“Sir knight,” he said, “ you are a Frenchman, 
and perhaps, therefore, you are ignorant, that 
when one speaks to the King of Spain, one styles 
him sire and highness.”* 

In fact, I am in the wrong,” said the knight, 
bowing, “ you are king at Soria.” 

“Yes, king at Soria,” resumed Don Pedro, 
“ until he who has usurped that title has ceased 
to be king elsewhere.” 

“ Sire,” said Agenor, “ it is happily not on 
those high questions which I have to discuss 
with you. I have come on the part of your 
brother, Don Henry of Transtamara, to propose 
to you a good and faithful peace of which your 
people have so much need, and at which your 
fraternal hearts will also rejoice.” 

“ Sir knight,” said Don Pedro, “ if you have 
come to discuss this point with me, tell me then 
why you now come to propose what you refused 
a week ago ? ” 

Agdnor bowed. 

“ I am not, your highness,” said he, “ judge 
between two powerful princes; I have only to 
repeat what has been told me: That is all. 
I am a voice reaching from Burgos to Soria, 
from one brother’s heart to another.” 

“Ah ! you do not know why he offers me peace 
to day,” said Don Pedro. “Well ! I will tell you.” 

Profound silence pervaded the assembly in 
expectation of the king’s words; Agenor availed 
himself of that moment, to cast his eyes again 
on the veiled woman and on the Moor. The 
veiled woman was always as mute and motion- 
less as a statue. The Moor was pale and so 
changed that he appeared to have exhausted in 
a night, all the sufferings of a life-time. 

“ You offer me peace in my brother’s name,” 
said the king, “ because mv brother wishes me 
to refuse it, and knows that I will refuse it on 
such conditions as you are about to propose.” 

“ Sire,” said Agenor, “ your highness is still 
ignorant what those conditions are.” 

“ I know that you are about to offer me the 
half of Spain ; I know that you are about to 
demand from me hostages, among the number of 
whom will be my minister Mothril and his 
family.” 

Mothril, from being pale, became livid; his 
glowing eye appeared striving to read in Don 
Pedro’s heart to become assured whether he 
would persevere in his refusal. 

Agenor trembled: he had not imparted these 
conditions to any one except the gipsy to whom 
he had said a few words on the subject. 

®The word “ Monseigneur ” is, however, repeatedly 
ut into Mothril’s mouth when addressing Don Pedro, 
his remark seems, therefore, out of place The word 
majesty only came into use long afterwards, in England 
first in Henry the Eighth’s reign.— Translator. 


“ Your highness,” said he, “ is, in truth, well 
informed “though how or by whom I know not.” 

At that moment, the woman seated next to 
the king, without any marked manner, and with 
a natural gesture, raised her gold embroidered 
veil aud let it fall on her shoulders. 

Agenor was almost ready to cry out with 
alarm; in that woman sitting at, Don Pedro's 
right hand, he recognised his travelling compan- 
ion. 

The blood rnshed to his face; he now under- 
stood whence the king had derived the informa- 
tion which had spared him the trouble of stat- 
ing the conditions of peace. 

“ Sir knight,” said the king, “ learn from my 
mouth, and repeat to those who sent you, that 
whatever be the conditions proposed to me, 
there is one that I shall always reject, that of a 
partition of my kingdom, seeing that my king- 
dom is my own, and that I have resolved to be 
free to dispose of it according to my good pleas- 
ure; when I have conquered, I will offer condi- 
tions in ray turn.” 

“Then your highness wills war?” asked Age- 
nor. 

“ I do not will it, but must meet it,” replied 
Don Pedro. 

“ That is your highness’ immutable decision ?” 

“ Yes.” 

Agenor slowly took off his steel gauntlet and 
flung it into the space which divided him from 
the king. 

“In the name of Don Henry of Transtamara, 
King of Castile,” he cried, “ 1 bring war hither.” 

The king arose amid loud murmurs, and a 
formidable clashing of 4 arms. 

“ You have faithfully performed your mission, 
sir knight,” said he; “ it remains that we should 
honorably perform our duty as a king. We offer 
you twenty-four hours’ hospitality in our town, 
and if it suit you, our palace shall be your resi- 
dence, and our table your own.” 

Agdnor, without replying, made a low bow to 
the king, and, on raising his head, cast his eyes 
on the woman seated by the king’s side. 

She looked at him with a sweet smile. It 
even seemed to him that she pressed her finger 
to her lips, as if to say — 

“ Be patient and hopeful !” 


CHAPTEE XL. 

THE RENDEZVOUS 

Notwithstanding this species of tacit promise 
which Agenor, besides, could scarcely explain to 
himself, he left the royal audience in a state of 
anxiety easily to be conceived. All that appear- 
ed ascertained to him, without any doubt, was 
that the unknown gipsy, with whom he had 
travelled on such terms of familiarity, was no 
other than the celebrated Maria Padilla. 

Don Pedro’s resolution, which he had not even 
waited his words to burst forth, was uot what 
made him most anxious : for, after all, Don Pedro 
had only learnt on the yesterday, what he ought 
to have known only on the morrow. But Age- 
nor further remembered having confided to the 
gipsy his dearest and most cherished secret — 
his love for Aissa. 

The jealousy of that terrible woman ones 
awakened against poor Aissa, who could know 
where the frenzy, which had already sacrificed 
so many innocent heads, would stop ? 


152 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


All tkese gloomy thoughts awakened at once 
in Agenor’s mind, prevented his- remarking the 
furious looks of Mothril and the noble Moors, 
whom the proposition made in Henry of Tran s- 
tamara’s name, had wounded at once in their 
pride and their interests. 

With his high-mettle and bravery, the knight 
would perhaps scarcely have maintained, in the 
face of their glances of defiance, all the calm- 
ness and imperturbability of an ambassador. 

At the moment that he was perhaps about to 
remark the reply to them, another circumstance 
occurred to divert his attention. Scarcely was 
he out of the palace, and past the’ rank of 
guards which surrounded it, when a woman 
wrapped in a long veil, touched his arm with a 
mysterious sign, inviting him to follow her. 

Agfhior hesitated an instant ; he knew with 
how many snares Don Pedro, and his vindictive 
mistress, surrounded their enemies; what fertili- 
ty of resources they could display when a deed 
of vengeance was to be worked out; but at that 
moment the knight, though a good Christian, 
nevertheless, was under a belief in that oriental 
fatality which does not leave man his free arbi- 
trament, and thus takes from him — is it not 
sometimes a happiness? — and thus takes from 
him the faculty of foreseeing and repelling evil. 

The knight then stifled all fear; he said with- 
in himself that he had already struggled suffi- 
eiently long, that it was good to finish with the 
matter one way or another, and that if fate had 
fixed that hour for his last.it should be welcome. 

He followed, therefore, the old woman, who 
went through the concourse of people — the 
same in all great towns, — and who, certain no 
doubt of escaping recognition when so closely 

# wrapped up, went straight to the house which 

* had been given to the knight as a residence. 

Musaron was in attendance on the threshold 
of the house. 

Once within, it was Agenor who led the old 
woman in the most remote apartment. The old 
woman followed in her turn, and Musaron, 
guessing something new would happen, brought 
up the rear. 

The old woman once within, raised her veil 
and Agdnor and his squire recognised the gip- 
sy’s nurse. 

After what had just occurred at the palace, 
this apparition nowise surprised Agenor; but 
Musaron in his ignorance uttered an exclama- 
tion of astonishment. 

“My lord,” said the old woman, “Donna 
Maria Padilla wishes to speak with you, and 
desires that, for that purpose, you wouid repair 
this evening to the palace. The king is to pass 
in review, the troops who have recently joined ; 
during this time Donna Maria will be alone, 
f’an she rely on you? Will you come and see 
her?” ^ * 

“ But,” said Agenor; who could not assume 
those favorable sentiments for Donna Maria 
which he did not feel, “ why does Donna Maria 
wish to see me? ” 

“ Do you think, Sir knight, that it is a great 
misfortune to be chosen by a woman like Don- 
na Maria, to come and speak to her in secret?” 
said the nurse, with the complaisant smile of 
an old southern female servant. 

“No,” said Agenor, “but I confess that I 
love meetings in the open air, where space is 
not wanting, and where a man may go with 
his horse and lance.” 

“ And. I with my crossbow,” said Musaron. 


The old woman smiled at these signs of ap- 
prehension. 

“ I see,” said she, “ that I must accomplish 
my mission to the end.” 

And she drew from a bag a little pouch con- 
taining a letter. 

Musaron, who always on such occasions, per- 
formed the office of reader, took the paper and 
read : 

“This, sir knight, is a safe conduct given by 
your travelling companion. Come then, and 
find me at the hour and place mentioned by 
my nurse, that we may speak of Aissa.” 

At these words Agenor trembled, and as the 
name of a mistress is a lover’s religion, that of 
Aissa seemed a solemn safeguard to Agenor, and 
he immediately exclaimed that he was ready to 
follow the nurse wherever she chose to go. 

“ In that case.” said she, “ nothing can be 
more simple, and I will wait for your lordship 
this evening at the castle chapel. The chapel 
is open to the officers of the king; but at 8 
o’clock at night the gates are closed. You will 
enter at half-past seven, and hide yourself be- 
hind the altar.” 

“ Behind the altar,” said Agenor, shaking his 
head with the prejudice of a man of the north, 
“Ido not like the assignations given behind 
the altar.” 

“ Oh, fear nothing.” said the old woman 
naively; “ in Spain, God is not offended with 
those little profanations, to which he is quite 
used. Besides, you will not long remain wait- 
ing; behind that altar is a door by which the 
prince and the persons of his household may go 
from his apartments to the chapel. I will open 
that door for you, and you will disappear with- 
out being seen, by that unknown road.” 

“ Without being seen. Ahem ! ahem! ” said 
Musaron, speaking French, “ that sounds terri- 
ribly cut-throatish, Sir Agenor; what do you 
think?” 

“ Fear nothing,” replied the knight, in the 
same language; “we have that woman’s letter, 
and, although signed only with her baptismal 
name, it is a guarantee. If any misfortune befall 
me. you will return with this letter to the con- 
stable and to Don Henry of Transtamara; you 
will explain to them my love, my misfortunes* 
the cunning employed to draw me into the 
snare; and I know them both well enough to be 
sure that they will inflict on the traitors a ven- 
geance which shall make Spain shudder.” 

“ Yerv good,” replied Musaron ; “ but in the 
meanwhile, you would not the less have been 
murdered.” 

“Yes; but if it be really to speak to Aissa 
that Donna Maria seyds for me ” 

“ Sir, you are in love; that is, you are mad,” 
replied Musaron; “ and a madman is always in 
the right; above all when he raves. Excuse 
me, sir, but it is the truth. I give up ; go there 
if you please.” 

And the honest Musaron sighed deeply as he 
ended his peroration. 

“ But, in fact,” he suddenly resumed, “ why 
should not I go with you ? ” 

“ Because a reply must be delivered to the 
king of Castile, Don Henry of Transtamara,” 
the good knight replied ; “ and that if I die, you 
alone could relate the result of my mission.” 

And Agenor briefly and clearly related to the 
squire Don Pedro’s reply. 

“ But, at least,” said Musaron, who would 
not give in, “ I may watch round the palace.” 


TFTE TPON ttaxt>: OR THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


153 



“To what purpose?” 

“To defend you, body of St. James!” exclaimed 
the squire; “to defend you with my cross-bow, 
which will knock down half a dozen of those 
yellow faces, while you knock down another 
half dozen with your sword. It will always be a 
dozen infidels the less, which can’t hurt our sal- 
va'ion.” 

“ My dear Musaron,” said Agenor, “ on the 
contrary, be so good as not to show yourself. If 
they kill me, the walls of the xilcazar will alone 
witness the deed; but listen,” he continued, with 
the trustfulness of an upright heart, “I do not 
think I have insulted tl at Donna Maria Padilla; 
she cannot, therefore, have any ill will against 
me; perhaps I have even done her a service.” 

“Yes; but the Moor; but the Senor Mothril, 
you have insulted him enough, have you not, 
both here and elsewhere? Now, if I am not 
deceived, he is governor of the palace, and you 


may have an idea of his kind disposition in your 
favo.ur by his having you arrested at the gates of 
the town, and wishing to throw you into a dun* 
geon. It is not the favourite woman that is to be 
feared, I allow, but the favourite minister.” 

Agenor what somewhat superstitious, and yery 
ready to mix religion with those capitulations of 
conscience so frequent with lovers; he turned 
towards the old woman, saying, 

“ If she smiles, I will go.” 

The old woman was smiling. 

“Return to Donna Maria,” said the knight t* 
the nurse; “ it is a ching agreed on: this evening 
at seven o'clock, I will be at the chapel.” 

“’Tis well, and I will be in attendance with 
the key of the little door,” replied the woman. 

“ Adieu, Sir Agenor; adieu! gracious squire.” 

Musaron nodded his head, the old w oman dis- 
appeared. 

“ Now,” said Agenor, turning towards Musarosi, 


154 


THE TKON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“no letters for the constable; they might stop 
you, and take them from you. You will tell him 
that war is resolved on — that hostilities must be 
begun; you have our money, you will make use 
of it to get on as quickly as possible.” 

“ But you, my lord? for after all one must sup- 
pose that you will not be killed.” 

“ I am in need of nothing. If I am betrayed I 
shall only have sacrificed a life of fatigue and de- 
ception, of which I am weary. If, on the contrary, 
Donna Maria protects me, she will provide me with 
horses and guides. Leave, Musaron; leave this 
very instant; it is on me, not on you, that eyes are 
fixed; it is known that I remain and that is enough. 
Leave: your horse is good and your courage high. 
As to myself I shall pass the rest of the day in 
prayer. Go!” 

This project, however adventurous, was well 
chosen for the state of circumstances. Therefore 
Musaron ceased to discuss it, not from courtesy 
to his master, but from conviction. 

Musaron left a quarter of an hour after the 
resolution had been arrived at, and left the town 
without difficulty. Agenor applied himself to 
prayer as he had said, and at half-past seven went 
to the chapel. 

The old woman was waiting for him; she made 
him a sign to hasten on, and opened the little door, 
dragging the knight in after her. 

After threading a long range of corridors and 
galleries, Agenor entered a low saloon dimly 
lighted, and round which was a terrace covered 
with flowers. A woman was seated under a 
species of canopy, accompanied by a slave, whom, 
o>Kthe knight’s approach, she dismissed. 

The old woman also discreetly withdrew as 
soon as she had introduced the knight. 

“ Thanks for your exactness,” said Donna Maria 
to Mauleon. “ I knew well that you were gene- 
rous and brave. I wished to thank you after 
having apparently committed an act of perfidy.” 

Agenor made no reply; it was to speak of A'issa 
that he had been sent for, and that he had come. 

“ Come near,” said Donna Maria; “ I am so 
much attached to the king, Don Ped^o, that I was 
obliged to consult his interests, even though I 
wounded yours; but my love is my excuse, and 
you who love, ought to understand me.” 

Maria was coming nearer to the qbject of the 
interview. Agenor, however, only bowed and 
remained silent. 

“Now,” said Maria, “that my affairs are dis- 
missed. let us, sir knight, speak of your own.” 

“ Of what affairs?” asked Agenor. 

“ Of those which most deeply interest you.” 

Agenor, at the sight of that open smile, of that 
graceful action, that cordial eloquence, felt him- 
self disarmed. 

“ Seat yourself there,” said the enchantress, 
pointing out a place near her. 

The knight did as he was bid. 

“You have believed me to be your enemy,” said 
the young woman, “ yet it is quite otherwise, and 
the proof is, that I am ready to do you a service, 
at least equal to those which you have performed 
for me. 

Agenor looked at her with astonishment; 
Maria Padilla resumed: — 

“Certainly; were you not my good defender, 
while we were on the road, and a good indirect 
counsellor?” 

“ Very indirect,” said Agenor, “ for I was com- 
pletely ignorant to whom I was speaking.” 

•*I*did not the less succeed in serving the king, 
tltt&ks to the information which you gave me,” 


added Donna Maria, with a smile; “cease then to 
deny that you have been useful to me.” 

“ Well! I will confess it, madam — but as to 
yourself.” 

“ You do not think me capable of serving you. 
Oh! sir knight, you suspect my gratitude!” 

“ Perhaps you would wish to do so, madam. I 
do not say otherwise.” 

“ I have both the wish and the possibility. 
Admit, for instance, that you were detained at 
Soria.” 

Agenor trembled. 

“ I oan, for my part,” continued Maria, “forward 
your escape from the town.” 

“Ah! madam,” said Agenor, “in acting thus, 
you would serve the interests of the king, Don 
Pedro, as well as my own; for you would prevent 
the king’s being charged with treason and base - 
ness.” 

“ I should admit that,” replied the young 
woman, “ were you a mere ambassador, unknown 
to all, and had you come to accomplish a purely 
political mission, such as could excite hatred and 
distrust in the king alone; but examii e well, have 
you not at Soria another enemy, a wholly personal 
enemy?” 

Agenor was visibly troubled 

“ Can you not understand, if it were so,” pur- 
sued Donna Maria, “ that such an enemy, if you 
had one, without consulting the king, and caring 
only for his private resentment, migffi lay a snare 
to avenge himself upon you, without the king’s 
having any part in that vengeance? which 
might be easily proved to your countrymen, in 
case any explanation v/ere come to. For, remem- 
ber well, sir knight, you are here at least as muen 
for the purpose of watching over your own in 
terests as over those of Don Henry de Trans- 
tamara.” 

Agenor allowed a sigh to escape him. 

“Ah! I think you have understood me,” said 
Maria. “ Well, could I ward from you the dan- 
ger which may menace you in this meeting?” 

“ You would save my life, madam, and for most 
men the preservation of their lives is a great 
concern; but as to myself, I know r not whether I 
should be very grateful for your generosity.” 

u Why not?” 

“ Because I do not value 1 ife. 

“ You do not value life?” 

“ No,” said Agenor, shaking his head. 

“Because you have some deep vexation; is it 
not so?” 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ And did I know that vexation?” 

“ You?” 

“ Could I show you its cause?” 

“Y r ou! you could tell me, you could show 
me?” 

Maria Padilla went towards the silk hanging 
which closed the terrace. 

“ See,” said she, withdrawing the tapestry 

A lower terrace was now visible, separated 
from the first by a thicket of orange trees, pome- 
granate trees, and rose laurels. On this terrace, 
surrounded by flowers and bathed in the golden 
dust of the setting sun, a woman was swinging in 
a purple coloured hammock. 

“Well,” said Donna Maria. 

“ AYssa,” exclaimed Mauleon, clasping his 
hands with delight. 

“ The daughter of Mothril, I believe,” said 
Donna Maria. 

“Oh! madam,” exclaimed Mauleon, devouring 
with his eyes the space which divided him from 


155 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


A'issa. “ Yes, there, there, you are right, is the 
happiness of my life!” 

•* Truly, so near,” said Dotna Maria, with a 
smile, “ and so far off !” 

“ Are you mocking me, senora?” asked Agenor, 
with anxiety. 

“ God forbid, sir knight. I only say that Donna 
A’issa is at this moment the image of happiness; 
it often seems that one has only to extend one’s 
hand to touch it, when one is really separated 
from it by some obstacle which, though invisible, 
is yet beyond our power to surmount.” 

“ Alas! I know it, she is watched, guarded.” 

“ Shut ir, sir knight, shut in by iron bars with 
strong locks.” 

“ Could I but attract her attention !” exclaimed 
Agenor, “see her, and be seen by her.” 

“ That would then make you very happy?” 

“ Supremely so.” 

“Well, I will gratify you. Donna A'issa 
has not seen you, and were she to see you, her 
grief would only b»* increased, for it is a sad con- 
solation for lovers to stretch out their arms to 
each other, and confide kisses to the air. Do 
better, sir knight.”. 

“ Oh! what must I do? Say on, say on, madam; 
order, or rather advise me.” 

“ Do you see that door,” said Donna Maria, 
pointing to an entrance on the terrace itself. 

“ Here is the key, the largest of the three at- 
tached to this ring; you have only to descend one 
tiight of stairs. A long passage similar to that 
you followed in coming here, gives on the garden 
of the neighbouring house, the trees of which ap- 
pear at the level of Donna A’issa’s terrace. Ah ! 
you begin to understand me, I think?” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mauleon, devouring Donna 
Maria’s words as fast as they dropped from her 
mouth. 

“ That garden,” she continued, “is closed with 
a grating of which the key is here, near the first. 
Once there, you can come still nearer to Donna 
A'issa, for you can reach the foot of the terrace, 
where she is now swinging; only the wall of that 
terrace is perpendicular, and it is impossible to 
scale it; at least, however, once there, you might 
call your mistress and speak to her.” 

“Thanks! thanks!” exclaimed Mauleon. 

“ You are already more satisfied, so much the 
better,” said Donna Maria, stopping him; “yet 
there is danger in thus conversing at a distance: 
one may be heard. I say that to you, although 
Mothril is absent; he accompanies the king to the 
review of the troops who have come from Africa, 
and tvill only return at half-past nine at earliest, 
or at ten, and it is now only eight.” 

“ One hour and a half ! Oh, madam, give me 
that key, give it me quickly, I beg.” 

“Oh! there is no time lost. Allow that last 
ray of the sun which now tinges the west with 
red, to grow dim; it is but a minute or two to 

wait. Then do you wish me to tell you ?” 

she added, with a smile. 

“ Tell me.” 

“ I know not how to detach this second key 
from the third, for I had great trouble in getting 
hold of this third which had been given by 
Mothril to Don Pedro himself ” 

“ To Don Pedro?” said Agenor, with a shud- 
der, 

“ Yes,” resumed Maria. “ You are to under- 
stand that this third key opens the gate which 
leads to the terrace itselt, that it opens that im- 
practicable wall at its base, and leads to a very 
convenient staircase opening on the terrace, where, 


at this very moment, A'issa is, no doubt, dreaming 
of you.” 

Agenor uttered a cry of frantic joy. 

“So that,” continued Donna Maria, “this gate 
on<re shut, you will be at liberty to converse an 
hour and a half with Mothril’s daughter, and that 
without fear of being observed. For if any one 
comes, and they can only come by the house, you 
will have a Sure and open retreat by this side.’’ 

Agenor fell on his knees and devoured the 
hand of his protectress. 

“ Madam,” said he, “ ask for my life, on the 
day it may be useful to you, and I will give it 
you.” 

“ Thanks, but preserve it for your mistress, Sir 
Agenor. The sun has set, in some instants the 
darkness of night will have fallen; you have 
but an hour. Go, and do not compromise me 
with Mothril.” 

Agenor darted down the little staircase of the 
terrace and disappeared. 

“ Sir knight,” called Donna Maria, as he fled, 
“ in an hour your horse will be ready at the 
chapel door; but let Mothril suspect nothing, or 
we are both lost.” 

“In an hoar, I swear it you!” replied the 
knight’s already distant voice. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE INTERVIEW. 

It was, in fact, A'issa, who, pensive and alone, 
was on the terrace below the palace which ad- 
joined her own and her father’s apartment, and, 
who languid and dreamy, like a true child of the 
East, was inhaling the evening breeze, and follow- 
ing with her e^es the last rays of the sun. 

When the sun had set, her eyes wandered over 
the magnificent gardens of the palace, seeking 
over the walls and trees what she had sought 
beyond the horizon, while the horizon had been 
visible; that idea, that vivid remembrance, which 
holds no count of space or time, and which is 
called love - that is, eternal hope. 

She was dreaming of the gardens of France, 
more green and shady, if not more perfumed, 
than those where she now was, of those rich 
gardens of Bordeaux, the protecting shade of 
which had sheltered the sweetest scene in her 
life, and as the human mind seeks some sad or 
joyful analogy to all things on which it dwells, 
she thought at the same time of the gardens of 
Seville, where, for the first time, she had seen 
Agenor near her, had spoken to him, had touched 
his hand, which she now longed to clasp again. 

There are abysses in the thoughts of lovers. 
As in the brains of the insane, extremes meet in 
them with the incoherent rapidity of dreams, 
and the smile of the young girl who loves, often 
passes like that of Ophelia , into bitter tears and 
heart-rending sobs. 

A'issa, quite overcome by her recollections, 
smiled, sighed, and shed tears. 

She was weeping, and, perhaps, was about to 
sob, when a hurried step resounded on the stone 
staircase. 

She thought that Mothril, already returned, 
was hastening, as he sometimes did, to surprise 
her in the midst of her softest dreams, as if in 
that man of magical clear-sightedness, intelligence, 
like an infernal torch, remained constantly alive, 
lighting all things around him, and leaving 
nothing dark but his unchangeable, profound 
and all-powerful thoughts. 


156 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


And yet the step did not seem to her to be 
Mothril’s. and its sound came from a quarter 
opposite to that by which Mothril came. 

Then, with a shudder, she thought of the king — 
the king — whom, since Donna Maria’s arrival, 
she had quite ceased to fear; and had, con- 
sequent!), forgotten. That staircase by which 
the noise came was that which Mo hril had 
reserved as a secret entry for the sovereign. 

She hastened, therefore, not to dry her tears, 
which would have been vulgar dissembling, which 
would have been below the pride of her thoughts, 
but to banish a remembrance which its softness 
made unfit for the presence of the enemy who 
was ab >ut to confront her; if it were Mothril, 
she had her will; it it were Don Pedro, she had 
her dagger. 

Then she turned her back to the door as if 
nothing either propitious or threatening could 
reach her in Agenor’s absence, preparing her 
ears to hear harsh words in harmony with the 
sinister step which had already made her 
shudder. 

Suddenly she felt two iron-clad arms wound 
around her neck; she uttered a cry of anger and 
disgust', but her mouth was closed by two eager 
lips. Then by the devouring sensation which 
passed into her veins, even more than by the look 
which she cast upon him, she recognised Agenor 
kneeling on the marble at her feet. 

Scarcely could she stifle the second cry of joy 
which exhaled from her lips and unburthened her 
heart. She rose up, still entwined around her 
lover, and, strong as the young panther dragging 
its prey into the bushes of Atlas, she led, or 
rather carried, Agenor into the staircase, which 
hid, in its mysterious shade, the joy of the two 
lovers. 

Aissa’s room, sheltered by long blinds, opened 
at the foot of this staircase; therefore, she took 
refuge in. her lover’s arms; and as all light from 
without was absoibed by the thick hangings: as 
no noise could penetrate through the tapestried 
walls, naught was heard during some instants but 
devouring kisses and sighs of flame, lost in A issa’s 
long, black, and perfumed tresses, which had 
become unloosed in their embraces, and wrapped 
Ihern both like a veil. 

A stranger to our European manners, and not 
knowing the art of doubling desire by resistance, 
Aissa had surrendered herself to her lover, as 
the first of womankind might have done, under 
the dominion of instinct, and with all the abandon- 
ment and fervour of a delight which is felt to be 
the chief of all. 

“ You! you!” she murmured, with intoxication; 
“you in the king, Don Pedro’s palace! you res- 
tored to my wild passion! Oh, days are too long 
in absence, and God has 'two measures for time— 
the minutes in which I see you — fleeting as 
shadows — the days on which I do not see you — 
and w'hich pass like centuries..” 

Then their voices were again lost in a sweet 
and long kiss. 

“Oh! you are now mine!” at last exclaimed 
Agenor; “ what matters MothriTs hate? What 
matters the king’s love? Now I am ready to 
die.” 

Die!” said A'issa, with humid eyes and trembling 
lips; “die! Oh! no, you shall not die, my well 
beloved. I saved you at Bordeaux, and will save 
you here again. As to the king’s love, look how 
little my heart is, and how small a part of my 
breast it raises up. Do you think that in that 
heart filled only with you, beating only for you, I 


there can be room even for the shadow of another 
love ? ” 

“Oh! God forbid that I should for an instant 
suppose that my Aissa would forget me. But 
where persuasion ‘fails, violence is sometimes all- 
powerful. Have you not heard related the 
auventure of Leonora de Ximenes, to whom the 
king’s brutality left no other refuge than a con- 
vent?” 

“ Leonora de Ximenes was not Aissa, my lord. 
It will not be wdth one, I swear to you, as it was 
with the other.” 

“You will defend yourself, I well know, but 
in defending yourself you will perhajs perish!' 5 

“ Well, would you not love me better dead 
than if belonging to another?’’ 

“ Oh ! yes, yes ’ ” cried the young man, pressing 
her to his heart. “ Oh! yes, die. die, if it be needful, 
but belong only to me.” 

And he again wrapped her in his arms with a 
movement of love which almost resembled terror. 

Night, which already darkened the walls with- 
out, had within the apartment concealed the form 
of every object; in such an obscurity, full of loving 
words and burning breath, how was it possible to 
avoid burning with that fire which consumes 
without giving light, like those terrible, flames 
which rage even under water. 

During a long while, the silence of death, or 
that of love, pervaded the chamber where two 
voices had just resounded and two hearts had 
mingled their beatings. 

Agenor was the first to tear himself from that 
ineffable happiness. He girt himself with his 
sword, of which the iron scabbard clanked on 
the marble. 

“ What are you doing!” exclaimed the young 
girl, seizing the knight’s arm. 

“You have said,” replied Agenor, “that time 
has two measures; minutes for happiness, and 
ages for despair. I must depart!” 

“You will depart; but you will take me with 
you, will you not? We will leave together?” 

The young man withdrew with a sigh from 
his mistress’s arms. 

“ Impossible,” said he. 

“ Why impossible?” 

“ Yes; I came here, in the sacred character of an 
ambassador, it is that which protects ipe ; I cannot 
break it.” 

“ But I ! ” exclaimed AVssa, “ I will not leave 
you.” 

“ Aissa,” said the young man, “ I come in the 
name of the good constable; I come in the name 
of Henry de Transtamara. One has confided 
me the interests of French honour; the oth 
those of the Castilian throne; what would tin 
say, if they saw that instead of fulfilling that mis- 
sion, I had only cared for the interests of my 
love ? ” 

“ Who will tell them? Who prevents veu from 
concealing me from all eyes?” 

“ It is necessary that I should return to Burgos. 
There are three days’ journey from Soria to 
Burgos.” 

“ I am strong and accustomed to rapid marches.” 

“No doubt, for the inarch of the Arab horse- 
men is rapid, more rapid than ours could be. In 
ai \ hour Mothril would perceive your evasion; in 
an hour he would be in pursuit; A'issa, I cannot 
re-enter Burgos as a fugitive.” 

“Oh! my God! must we again part,” said 
Aissa. 

“This time, at least; our separation shall bo 
short, I swear. Let me discharge my mission; 


THE IRON HAND ; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 157 


let me rejoin Don Henry’s camp, let me lay down 
the employment which he has conferred on me, 
and become once more Agenor, the French knight, 
who loves you, and then, Aissa, I swear, under 
one disguise or another, even that of an Infidel, I 
will return to you, and then I will carry you oil by 
force, if you will not come ” 

“No, no,” said Aissa, “ my life has only began 
to-day; until to-day, I did not live, for I did not 
belong to you ; from to-day, I cannot live without 
you; I cannot, as I did before, sigh and weep 
while waiting for you; no, I should rage, I should 
" tear myself in my grief, for, from to-day, I am your 
wife! Oh! may all those perish who prevent the 
wife’s following her husband!” 

“ What, even our protectress, Aissa? even that 
generous woman w’ho led me to you; even poor 
Marifi Padilla, on whom Mothril would wreak his 
vengeance? And you know how Mothril avenges 
himself.’’ 

“ Oh ! my soul is leaving me,” murmured the 
young girl, growing pale; for she felt that a supe- 
rior strength, ‘that of reason, was separating her 
from her lover. “ But let me rejoin you; I have 
two mules so rapid that they outvie in speed the 
most rapid horses. You will point out some spot 
to me where I may wait for, or rejoin you; and 
be assured that I will rejoin you.’’ 

“ Aissa, we are returning to the same end, by 
another road. It is impossible — impossible!” 

The young girl fell on her knees. The proud 
Moresca was at Agenor’s feet in prayer and sup- 
plication. 

At that moment the mournful and plaintive 
sound of a guzla was heard above their heads, 
imitating the anxious call of an expectant friend; 
both trembled. 

“ Whence. comes that noise?” said Aissa. 

“ I can guess,” said Agenor; “ come, come.” 

Both remounted the terrace. 

Agenor’s eyes were instantly directed to Maria’s 
terrace. 

The night was dark, yet, by the dim light of 
the stars, the lovers might distinguish a white 
dress leaning on the parapet, and turned in their 
direction. 

Perhaps they might still have remained doubting 
whether it were a phantom or a woman, but, 
at the same instant, the vibrations of a sono- 
rous chord were heard in the same direction as 
before. 

“ She calls me,” murmured Agenor — “she calls 
me; do you not hear?” 

“ Come, come!” cried, as if coming from heaven, 
the lowered voice of Donna Maria. 

“ Do you hear her, Aissa? — do you hear her?” 
said Agenor. 

“Oh! I neither see, nor hear anything,” stam- 
mered the young girl. 

At the same time w’as heard a flourish of trum- 
pets. such as usually accompanied the king on his 
return to the palace. 

“ Great God!” exclaimed Aissa, suddenly trans- 
formed into a weak and anxious woman; “they 
come ; fly, my Agenor, fly !” 

“ < >ne more adieu!” said Agenor. 

“ The last, perhaps,” murmured the young girl, 
pressing her lips to her lover’s. 

And she pushed the young man upon the stair- 
case. 

Ilis step had not ceased to sound, when that of 
Mothril was heard; and the door leading to Maria 
Padilla’s room had scarcely closed, when that of 
Aissa’ s was opened. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE PREPARATIONS FOR BATTLE. 

Three days after the events we have just related, 
Agenor, having rejoined Musaron by the same 
road he had taken in coming, was giving an 
account of his mission to Henry of Transta- 
mara. 

None were blind to tne danger which Agenor 
had run in discharging his trust as an ambassador. 
Therefore, the constable thanked him, praised 
him, and instructed to take his place among the 
bravest Bretons, under the banner of Sylvester de 
Budes. 

On all sides preparations were made for war. 
The Prince of Wales had obtained a passage 
through the territory of the King of Navarre, and 
had rejoined Don Pedro, bringing with him a good 
army to act with his good African troops. 

The English adventurers again, having de- 
cidedly adhered to Don Pedro, were preparing to 
strike heavy blows against the Bretons* and the 
Gascons, their inveterate enemies. 

It need not be said that the boldest plans and 
those most likely to prove lucrative, were fer- 
menting in the head of our friend, Messire Hugh 
de Caverley. 

Henry de Transtamara was not in arrear with 
his warlike preparations. He had been joined by 
his two brothers, Don Tellez and Don Sancho, 
had entrusted them with commands, and was 
marching, by easy journeys, to meet his other 
brother, D >n Pedro. 

Throughout Spain, that feverish ardour was 
felt which passes, so to speak, through the air, 
and which precedes all gieat events. Musaron, 
always full of forethought and philosophy, ex- 
horted his master to eat the best game and drink 
the choicest wdnes, so as to be stronger for the 
day of battle and acquire as much honour as 
possible. 

Lastly, Agenor, once more free, and rendered more 
amorous than ever by a momentary possession, w as 
combining all possible and impossible means to get 
near Aissa, and to cariy her off, so as to avoid 
being obliged to wait for the hazardous event of a 
battle, where one may come in strength and 
pride, but leave a fugitive, or with a mortal 
wound. 

Fo • the purpose in question, he had, with Ber- 
trand’s bounty, bought two Arab horses, which 
Musaron exercised every day in making long 
courses and in supporting hunger and thirst. 

At last, news was brought that the Prince of 
Wales had passed the defiles and entered the 
plain. He marched with the army he had brought 
from Guienne, to near the town of Vittoria, at a 
little distance from Navarrete; 

He had thirty thousand horsemen and forty 
thousand infantry. It was a force about equal to 
that commanded by Don Pedro. % 

Henry de Transtamara had, on his side, about 
forty thousand horsemen and sixty thousand in- 
fantry. Bertrand, who had brought up the rear- 
guard with his Bretons, allowed the Spaniards to 

* The Bretons and Gascons collectively were so far then 
from being the enemies of the English, that the latter were 
their subjects, and the former their allies. The then Duke 
of Brittany had been seated on bis throne by Edward the 
Th rd s efforts, and Gascony had long been an appanage of 
the English crown. ! <reat part of the forces under the 
Black Prince's command were from these provinces; and 
among their leaders we fin the Gascon, Gaptal de Bueh, 
and the Bretons, Olivier de Clisson, and the Marechal de 
Retz, m< ntioned by M. Dumas himself, o lowing history La 
those particulars, among the leaders — Translator. 


THE IRON HANR: OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


loB 


. i 


rodomontade and boast on either side the victory, 
which neither had vet gained. 

But he had his spies, who daily reported to 
him all that Don Pedro’s and even Don Henry’s 
army was doing, and he knew all Caverley’s pro- 
jects at the very moment that the fertile imagina- 
tion of the adventurer gave them birth. 

He was consequently aware that the worthy 
captain, having his appetite sharpened by the 
royal captures he had previously made, had 
odercd the Prince of Wales to end the war by a 
single blow. 

His plan was exceedingly simple ; it was that of 
the bird of prey which hovers aloft in the air at 
an invisible height, then swoops suddenly down 
on its prey, and bears it off in its talons, when it 
least expects it. 

Messire Hugh deCaverley, leagued with John 
Chandos, the Duke of Lancaster, and a part of 
the English advanced guard, was to burst sud- 
denly on Don Henry’s quarters, carry him and 
his court off, and thus make at a blow, fifty ran- 
soms of which one would be sufficient for the 
fortune of six adventurers. 

The Prince of Wales had accepted; he had 
nothing to lose, and everything to gain by the 
offer proposed to him. 

Unfortunately for the project, Messire Ber- 
trand Duguesclin had, as we have said, spies who 
told him all that was going on in the enemy’s 
camp. 

More unfortunately still, he had against the 
English, in general, the old rancour of a Breton, 
and against Messire Caverley, in particular, a 
hatred which was quite new. 

Ke therefore instructed his spies not to sleep 
for an instant, or if they slept, to sleep only with 
one eye. 

He was consequently informed of Messire 
Hugh de Caverley’s slightest movements. 

An hour before the worthy captain left the 
Prince of Wales’s camp, the constable assembled 
six thousand Breton and Spanish horsemen, and 
sent Agenor and the Begue de Vilaines, by a 
road opposite his own, to take post in a wood, 
traversed by a defile. 

Eaeh # of the troops was to occupy a parallel 
portion of the wood, and then when the English 
had passed, close the defile behind them. 

On his side Henry de Transtamara being tore- 
warned, kept all his troops under arms. 

Caverley was therefore to strike against an iron 
wail, and when he strove to beat in retreat, to 
find himself cut off by another iron wall. 

At nightfall, men and horses were already in 
ambuscade. Each horseman, prostrate on his 
belly, held in ha»»d his horse’s bridle. 

About ten o’clock, Caverley and all his troop 
entered the defile. Such was the security with 
which the English marched, that they did not 
even explore the wood, which the night, besides, 
made it difficult, if not impossible to do. 

Behind the English, the Bretons and Spaniards 
joined again, like tie links of a re-united 

chain. . 

About midnight, a great noise was heard; \t 
was Caverley charging on the king, Don Henry’s 
quarters, and the latter receiving him with the 
shout of Don Henry and Castile! 

Then Bertrand having Agenor at his right, and 
the Begue de 'Vilaines at his left, put. his troop 
t<> the gallop, with the «hout of Notre-Dame 
Guesclin! 

At the same time great fires were lignted on 
the flanks, and illumined the scene, showing 


Caverley his five or six thousand adventurers 
enclosed between two armies. 

Caverley was not the man to seek a useless 
death, however glorious. In the place of Edward 
III at Cressy, he wouid have fled; in the place of 
the Prince of Wales, at Poictiers, he would have 
laid down his arms. 

But as one only surrenders at the last extre- 
mity, above all, when, by a surrender, one run's 
the risk of being hung, he put his horse to the 
gallop and disappeared by a lateral opening, 
like the traitor in a melodrama, by an ill-shut 
side entrance. 

All his baggage, a considerable sum in gold, a 
casket of precious stones and jewels, the fruit of 
three years’ rapine, during which the worthy 
captain had displayed more genius in escaping the 
rope than Hannibal, Ctesar, and Alexander had 
ever exhibited, fell into the Bastard of Mauleon’s 
hands.* 

Musaron reckoned up the spoil, while the dead 
were being stripped and the prisoners chained; he 
then discovered that he was in the service of one 
of the richest knights in Christendom. This 
change, and it was immense, had taken place in 
less than an hour. 

The adventurers had been cut to pieces; two or 
three hundred at most had with difficulty suc- 
ceeded in escaping. 

This success wrought so much audacity in the 
Spaniards, that Don Tellez, the younger brother 
of Don Henry of Transtamara, urging his horse 
forward, wished, without further preparation, to 
march straight on the enemy. 

“A moment, sir count,” said Bertrand: “you 
will not, I presume, go alone against the enemy 
and risk being ingloriously taken prisoner.” 

“ But all the army will go with me, I suppose,” 
replied Don Tellez. 

“ Not so, my lord, not so,” replied Bertrand. 

“ Let the Bretons remain if they will,’’ said Don 
Tellez; “but I will march with the Spaniards.” 

“ To what purpose? ” 

“ To beat the English.” 

“ Excuse me,” said Bertrand, “ the English have 
been beaten by the Bretons, but would not be so 
by the Spaniards.” 

“ Why so?” impetuously exclaimed Don Tellez, 
going up to the constable. 

“Because,” said Bertrand, without discom- 
posure, “ the Bretons are better soldiers than the 
English ; but the English are better soldiers than 
the Spaniards.” 

The young prince felt his forehead crimsoned 
by anger. 

“ It is a strange thing,” said he, “ that a French- 
man should be the master here in Spain; but we 
shall know forthwith whether Don Tellez has to 
obey instead of commanding. On, and follow 
me!” 

“ My eighteen thousand Bretons shall only 
move when I order them to move,” said Bertrand. 
“ As to your Spaniards, I am only their master 
so long as your master and mine, Don Henry of 
Transtamara, orders them to obey me.” 

“ How prudent these Frenchmen are!” exclaimed 
the incensed Don Tellez. What sang /raid they 

* It has always seemed to me a poor and sorry sort of 
jesting which sports with the memory of great, men, and 
brings down their noble deeds and high conceptions r>y 
mean and vulgar comparisons French literature is ex- 
tremely free from this debased sort of merriment, which, on 
the other hand, is a plague-spot on all English wit of tin, 
day, real or attempted. But we have here a v rv n o n 
specimen of this kind, quite unworthy of M. Dumas’# 
abilities. — T kanslaio*. 


THE IRON HAND: OR THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


159 


exhibit, not only in the face of danger, but even 
in that of insult! I congratulate you on the 
quality, sir constable.” 

“Yes, my lord,” replied Bertrand; “ my blood 
is cold when it is held in check, but is warm when 
it flows.” 

And the constable, ready to burst forth, closed 
his large fist against his coat of mail. 

“It is cold, I tell you,” the young man con- 
tinued, “ and that because you are old. Now 
when one gets old, one begins to be afraid.” 

“ Afraid!” cried Agenor, urging on his horse to 
where Don Tellez stood; “whoever says that the 
constable is afraid, shall not say it a second time.” 

“ Silence, my friend!” said the constable; “let 
fools talk according to their folly; and patience, 
patience ! ” 

“Respect the blood royal!” exclaimed Don 
Tellez “respect it, do you hear?” 

“ Respect }murself, if you wish to be respected,” 
suddenly said a voice which made the young 
prince tremble, for it was that of his elder brother, 
who had been acquainted with this untoward 
altercation; “and, above all, do not insult our 
ally and our hero.” 

“Thanks, sire,” said Bertrand; “your tongue 
is generous in sparing me a task which is always 
disagreeable — that of chastising insolence. But I 
do not speak with reference to you, Don Tellez; 
you already understand how much you have been 
in the wrong.” 

“ In the wrong ! I ! what, because I have said 
that we should go forth and give battle? Is it 
not true, sire, that we are about to march on the 
enemy?” said Don Tellez. 

“ To march on the enemy — at this moment!” 
exclaimed Duguesclin; “impossible!” 

“No, my dear constable,” said Don Henry, “it 
is so little impossible, that by daybreak we shall 
be engaged.” 

“ Sire, we shall be beaten.” 

“ Why so?” 

“ Because our position is a bad one.” 

“ There are no bad positions ; there are only 
brave men and cowards,” exclaimed Don Tellez. 

“ Sir constable,” said the king, “ my nobles 
call for battle, and I cannot refuse what, they 
demand. They have seen the Prince of Wales 
' descend, and would have the appearance of giving 
I way.” 

“ Besides,” said Don Tellez, “ the constable 
will be at liberty to look on and rest while we 
' are fighting.” 

“ Sir,” replied Duguesclin , “ I will do all that 
the Spaniards do, and more I hope; for mark this 
well : you will attack in two hours’ tim , will you 
; not?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well! in four hours you will be flying through 
the plain, before the Prince of Wales, while I and 
my Bretons will be here where I am, without a 
man having receded the length of his soul, or a 
horseman that of his horse’s shoe. Remain, and 
you will see.” 

“ Come, sir constable,” said Henry, “ be more 
moderate.” 

“ I tell you the truth, sire. You mean, you say, 
to give battle?” 

“ Yes, constable, I mean to do so because I 
ought to do so.” 

“ So be it!” 

Then turning to his Bretons, 

“My children, we are to give battle. Get 
ready.” 

“All these brave fellows and I myself, sire,”. | 


he continued, “will be this evening either dead or 
in the enemy’s hands; but your will must bo fol- 
lowed in all things; only remember that I shall 
lose only my life or my liberty, while you will 
lose a throne.” 

The king lowered his head, and turning towards 
his friends: 

“ The good constable is severe to us this morn- 
ing,” he said, “ but make your preparations, 
nevertheless, my lords.” 

“ It is true, then, that we shall be killed to-day?” 
said Musaron, loud enough to be heard by the 
constable. 

The latter turned round. 

“Oh! faith, yes, worthy squire,” said he, 
smiling, “ that’s the naked truth.” 

“ ’Tis vexatious,” said Musaron, striking his 
breeches-pocket, filled with gold, “ that we should 
be killed just at the moment when we were about 
to be rich and to enjoy life.” 


* CHAPTER XLIIL 

THE BATTLE. 

An hour after this mournful reflection of the 
worthy squire, as Bertrand termed Musaron, the 
sun rose over the plains of Navarrete, as pure, as 
calm, and as tranquil as if he were not soon to 
enlighten one of the celebrated battles which 
stain the world’s annals with blood. 

When the sun rose, the plain was occupied by 
Don Henry’s army, disposed in three bodies. 
Don Tellez, with his brother, Don Sancho, held 
the left, at the head of twenty-five thousand 
men. 

Duguesclin, with six thousand men-at-arms; 
that is. about eighteen thousand horsemen, led 
the advanced guard. Lastly, Don Henry himself, 
about on the same level as his two brothers held 
the right with twenty-one thousand horsemen, 
and thirty thousand foot soldiers. 

The army was disposed like the three grades of 
a flight of steps. 

There was a reserve of Arragonese horsemen, 
w r ell mounted, and commanded by the Counts of 
Aignes and of Roquebertin. 

It was the 3d April, 1368, and the day before 
had been overpowering with heat and dust. 

King Henry, mounted on a fine mule from 
Arragon, rode through the intervals of his 
squadrons, ‘encouraging some, praising others, 
and representing to all the danger they would 
run, if they fell alive into the hands of the cruel 
Don Pedro. 

As to the constable, who remained cool and 
resolute at his post, the king had embraced him, 
saying -“Your arm is about to fix the crown 
securely on my head. Why is it not the crown of 
the universe? I would offer it you, as it is the 
only one worthy of you.” 

Kings always find such expressions m the 
moment of danger. It is true that tthen the 
danger passes, it bears them away with it, 
as dust is borne away with the gust of wind which 
raised it. 

Then Henry knelt on the bare ground, prayed 
to God, and was imitated by all his peop'e. 

At that moment the rays of the rising sun 
broke forth behind the mountain of Navarreie, 
and the soldiers, as they looked at it, perceived 
the first English lances bristling the slope, whence 
they began slowly to descend, forming at different 


160 


THE IRON HAND: OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


stages on the plateaux * on the flanks of the 
mountain. 

Agenor recognised in the banners of the first 
rank, that of Caverley, more stiff and proud than 
even at ihe moment of the nocturnal attack. Lan- 
caster and Cliandos, who, like our captain, had 
escaped from the defeat of the night, commanded 
with him, so much the more resolved that they 
had a terrible revenge to take. 

All three went to take up their position opposite 
to that of Duguesclin. 

The Prince of Wales and Don Pedro took post 
opposite to Don Sancho and Don Tellez. 

The Captal de Buch, Jean Grailly, took post 
opposite Don Henry of Transtamara. 

The Black Prince, as the only exhortation to 
his troops, touched by the sight of so many thou- 
sands of men prepared for mutual butchery, shed 
tears, and begged from God, not victory, but that 
right which is the device of the crown of Eng - 
land. 

Then the trumpets sounded. 

Immediately the plain was felt trembling under 
the shock of horses’ feet, and a noise resembling 
that of two meeting thunder-clouds resounded 
through the air. 

Yet the two advanced guards, composea of reso- 
lute, but experienced men, came forward only at a 
walk. 

After the arrows’ flight, by which the air was 
first darkened, the knights rushed forward against 
each other, and fought hand to hand, and in 
silence; it was a teriible and exciting spectacle 
for that part of the army which was not yet 
engaged. 

The Black Prince allowed himself to be carried 
away like a private man-at-arms. 

He urged all his corps d’armee at a gallop 
against Don Tellez. 

It was the first pitched battle in which that 
young man had been engaged, and he saw coming 
against him those men who, with the Bretons, 
passed for being the first soldiers of the world. 

He became afraid, and fell back. 

His horsemen seeing him draw back, turned 
their horses’ heads, and in an instant the whole 
left wing had taken flight under the influence of 
one of those panics, in the impulse and shame of 
which even the bravest sometimes share. 

As Don Tellez' passed before the Bretons, wjio, 
though they had formed the advanced guard, 
were now in the rear, in consequence of the 
movement which he had made in advance, he 
hastened his course, while he averted his head. 

As to Don Sancho, he met the contemptuous 
glance of the constable ; and, sto ping short 
under that all powerful look, he turned against 
the enemy, and got himself taken prisoner. 

Don Pedro, who was with the Prince of Wales, 
in pursuit of the fugitives, eager to profit by 
this first success, seeing that, the left wing was 
in rout, turned immediately against his brother 
Henry, who was bravely contending against the 
Captal de Buch. 

But attacked in flank by seven thousand fresh 
lances, flushed with success, he wavered. 

In the midst of the nois- of clashing iron, of 
neighing horses, and of combaiants shouting with 

* We have no good equivalent in English for plateau (a 
flat, space on the summit of a declivity), and the word has 
become naturalised in military matters where its use is 
absolutely indispensable. YaW'-land approaches the sig- 
nification; but it. is a somewhat clumsy, besides being a com- 
pound word. Further, it conveys the idea of a grea*. ext* nt 
of flat surface^ like that of Steppe.— Tranolatob. 


| rage, was heard the voice of Don Pedro rising 
above all this uproar, and erying out— 

“No quarter to the rebels!— no quarter!” 

He fought with a gilded axe, of which all the 
gilding, from the edge to the handle, had already 
disappeared under blood. 

During this time, the reserve having been 
broken through to its last ranks, by Olivier de 
Clisson, and the Sire de Retz, who had turned the 
battle, was overthrown and in flight. There were 
only Duguesclin and his Bretons remaining, who, 
as they had promised, had not drawn back a step, 
and formed in an unattainable mass, seemed an 
iron rock, round which the conquering battalions 
came to roll, like long and greedy serpents. 

Duguesclin cast a rapid glance over the plain, 
and saw that the battle was lost. He saw thirty 
thousand soldiers flying in all directions; he saw 
the enemy everywhere, where, but an hour before, 
had been allies and friends. He understood that 
nothing remained but to die, doing as much mis- 
chief as possible to the enemy. 

He cast his eyes to the left, and perceived an 
old wall, the rampart of a destroyed town. Two 
English companies separated him from this sup- 
port, which once gained only admitted an attack 
in front. In a loud and sonorous voice he gave 
his orders ; the two English companies were 
crushed, and the Bretons obtained the support of 
the wall. 

Then Bertrand reformed his line, and breathed 
for an instant. 

The Begue de Vilaines and the Marechal d’Au- 
deneham took breath with him. 

Agenor, whose horse had been killed in t'he 
affair, wasVaiting behind one of the turns of the 
wall the led horse which Musarcn was bringing 
for him. 

The constable availed himself of this momen- 
tary respite to raise the visor of his helmet, wipe 
his face from sweat and dust, and look around 
him, quietly counting the number of men that re- 
mained. 

“ The king,” ne asked, “where is the king? is 
he dead, or has he fled?” 

“ No, messire,” said Agenor, “ he is neither 
slain nor flying; there he is, coming towards 
us.” 

Don Henry, covered with the blood of his 
enemies mixed with his own, the crown on his 
helmet broken by the blow of an axe, rejoined 
the constable, fighting like a brave knight. 

In fact, harassed and out of breath, retiring 
without flight, on the bended haunches of tiis 
charger, which had not ceased a moment to look 
towards the enemy,* the brave king was, by small 
degrees, making his way to the Bretons, drawing 
upon those faithful allies the cloud of English, 
who were greedy as ravens for so rich a prey. 

Bertrand gave orders to a hundred men to go 
and support Don Henry, and to free him from the 
enemy’s grasp. 

These hundred men rushed upon ten thousand, 
clove themselves a passage, and formed a circle 
around the king, in the midst of which he might 
breathe. 

But, as soon as he was free, Don Henry 
changed his horse for that of a squire, threw off 
his battered helmet, took another from tin; hands 
of a page, made sure that, his sword still held firm 
to the hilt, and, strong as another Antaeus, who 
requires only to touch the earth, said, “Friends! 

• The very conception of such manoeuvring in a combat 
of cavalry is perfectly ridiculous. — T ranslator. 


THE IRON HAND: OR THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


161 


cried he, “ you made me king, now you shall see, 
if I am worthy of your choice,” and he threw him- 
self into the thickest of the fight. 

They saw him four times raise his sword, and 
with every blow, they saw an enemy fall. 

“ To the king! to the king I” said the constable, 
“ let us save the king !” 

And it was indeed full time ; the English closed 
in upon the king as does the sea upon a swimmer. 
He was about to be taken, when the constable 
reached his side. 

Bertrand took him by the arm, and throwing 
some Bretons between th© king and the enemy. 

“ Enough of courage as it is,” said he, “ more 
would be mere folly ; the battle is lost, fly ! it is my 
place to die here, and protect your retreat.” 

The king refused, Bertrand made a sign, four 
Bretons seized Henry de Transtamara. 

“ And new by our Lady Guesclin !” cried the 
constable, “ we will await the enemy’s charge.” 

And couching his lance, he awaited with the men 
he still had left, the shock of thirty thousand cava- 
liers ; a frightful shock which seemed destined to 
throw down even the wall which protected the little 
troop. 

“It is here we must bid one another adieu,” said 
Musaron, sending the enemy the last bolt he had 
left. “ Ah ! Lord Agenor, there are those fright- 
ful Moors behind the English.” 

“ Well then ! farewell my dear Musaron,” said 
Agenor, who had remounted, and who had placed 
himself side by side with the constable. 

The cloud of men arrived, threatening and ready 
to burst upon them ; amid the dust all that could 
be seen advancing was a forest of lances lowered 
horizontally. * 

But on a sudden, in the still open space between 
them, and at the risk of being crushed between the 
two masses, rushed forth a knight in black armor, 
a black helmet, with a black crown, and holding in 
his hand the baton of command. 

“ Halt !” cried the black knight raising his arm, 
“ he who moves a step shall die !” 

On hearing this powerful voice, the horses which 
had been urged on at full speed, were seen to 
writhe beneath their bits ; several of them touched 
the ground with their nervous hocks. 

The prince then being alone in the open space, 
gazed with that sorrowful and peculiar look, which 
posterity has so much glorified in him, upon these 
intrepid Bretons about to be swept away by such 
superior numbors. 

“ Good people,” said he, “ brave knights, I will 
not that you should die thus ; look, even a god 
could not resist.” 

Then turning to Duguesclin, towards whom he 
hted advanced, saluting him — 

“ Good constable,” he continued, “ I am the 
Prince of Wales, and I desire that you should live ; 
your death would make too great a void among 
brave men ; deliver your sword ..to me, I entreat 
you.” 

Duguesclin was a man who could fully compre- 
hend true generosity ; that of the prince moved him. 

“ It is a loyal knight who speaks,” said he, “ and 
I can understand English when spoken in that 
manner.” 

And he lowered his sword. 

At the call of their prince, the English advanced, 
with lances lowered without precipitation and with- 
out anger. 

The constable took his sword by the blade, and 
was about to surrender it to the prince, when sud- 
denly Den Pedro appeared on his foaming charger ; 

10 


he was covered with blood, and his armour wan 
battered in several places. He bad left those who 
were flying to attack those who still resisted. 

“ What !” cried he, rushirg on the constable, 
what, would you allow these men to live ; why we 
should never be masters of the country, as long as 
they exist. No quarter. Death ! death !” 

“.Oh !” cried Duguesclin, “ this is a brute beast, 
and as a brute beast he shall die.” Then as the 
prince was urging his horse towards him he raised 
his sword by the blade and dealt him such a blow 
with its massive hilt on the head, a blow that would 
have felled an ox, that Don Pedro fell back on the 
cro^p of his horse, stunned and half dead. 

Duguesclin again raised his heavy weapon, but 
when rushing to meet the prince, he had left an open 
space behind him, into which two Englishmen 
had slipped, and while he raised both his arms, one 
of them seized him by the helmet, and the other by 
his waist. The one who held him by the helmet, 
dragged him backwards, while the other who held 
him by the waist endeavored to lift him iron* his 
saddle. 

“ Messire constable,” they cried together, “ sur- 
render, or die !” 

Bertrand raised his head, and strong as a wild 
bull, dragged from his stirrups the Englishman who 
had seized him by the helmet, while slipping the 
point of his sword beneath the gorget of the one 
who held him round the body, he ran him through 
the neck, thus stifling his threats with blood. 

But a hundred other Englishmen advanced upon 
him, each of them ready to strike a blow at the gi- 
ant. 

“ Gome now,” cried the Black Prince in a voice 
of thunder, “ who will be daring enough to lay a 
finger on him.” 

The most impetuous even, instantly drew back, 
and Duguesclin was once more free. 

“ Enough, my prince,” cried he, “ I owe you 
twice my sword, you are the most generous con- 
queror in the world,” and he tendered his sword to 
the prince. 

Agenor also tendered his. 

“ Are you mad ?” said Bertrand to him, “ you 
have a good fresh horse under you. Fly, and make 
the best of your way to France, tell our good King 
Charles that I am a prisoner. If he will not do 
anything for me, go to my brother Oliver, and he 
will do the needful.” 

“ But, my lord,” said Agenor, hesitating. 

“ They are not paying any attention to you — go, 
it is my order.” 

“ Alert !” said Musaron, who desired nothing 
better than to make his escape, “let us take ad- 
vantage of being but little folks, we shall come back 
great ones.” 

And in fact the Begue de Villaines, the Marshal, 
and the great . captains were subjects of dispute 
among the English. Agenor slipped behind all 
these, Musaron stealthily followed his master, and 
both of them putting their horses to a gallop, set 
off* at full speed, saluted by a shower of arrows from 
Caverly and Mothril, but fortunately too late. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

AFTER THE BATTLE. 

The number of prisoners made on this day, had 
been considerable. The conquerors counted and 
number d the men they had taken as if they had 
been counting and ticketing bags of money. 


162 


THE TEON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


With Caverley, the Green Knight, some French 
Adventurers distinguished themselves in that praise- 
worthy occupation which consists in despoiling 
the prisoner, after having caused the scriven it to in 
scribe his name, Christian name, titles, an^ rank in j 
the army. 

The vanquishers had therefore taken each their | 
share of the prisoners. Duguesclin was in the lot | 
of the Prince of Wales, who had given him in ■ 
charge to the Captel de Buch. 

Jean de Grailly approached Bertrand, and ta- 
king his hand, began very politely to draw off his 
gauntlet, and his esquires then unbuckled and re- 
lieved the constable of the various parts of his ar- 
mor. 

Bertrand tranquilly allowed them to do this ; 
they did not use any sort of violence towards him ; 
he was counting and recounting the number of his 
friends, sighing deeply every time that he found 
there was one missing from this tacit muster. 

“ Brave constable,” said Grailly to him, “ you 
took me prisoner at Cockerel ; see now how fickle 
fortune is, for to-day you have become mine.” 

“ Oh ! oh !” said Bertrand, “ you deceive your- 
self ; I took you at Cocherel ; at Navarrete you 
guard me ; you were my prisoner at Cocherel ; at 
Navarrete you are my keeper.” 

Jean de Grailly blushed, but such was the res- 
pect which in those days were paid to misfortune, 
that he abstained from making any reply. 

Duguesclin seated himself on the side of a ditch, 
and invited the Begue de Villaines, Andrehan, and 
the rest to draw near to him, for the Prince of Wales 
had ordered the trumpets to be sounded and to as- 
semble the soldiers. 

“ They are going to pray,” said the constable ; 
“ His Highness is a brave and very pious prince 
Let us also pray.” 

“ To return thanks to God for having saved your , 
life ?” said the Begue de Villaines. 

“ To ask him soon to allow us to retaliate,” re- 
plied Bertrand. 

The Prince of Wales after having on his knees, 
poured forth to the Lord his thanks for granting 
him so great a victory, called Don Pedro, who had 
during this time been casting arouud him looks of 
dire ferocity, and had not bent his knee for a single 
moment, but was seemingly absorbed in gloomy 
contemplation. 

“ You are victorious now,” said the Black Prince 
to him, “ and yet have you lost a great battle.” 

“ How can that be ?” said Don Pedro. 

“ A king is conquered when he cannot recover 
his crown, but by spilling the blood of his subjects.” 

“ Rebels !” exclaimed Don Pedro. 

“ And has not God punished them for having 
abandoned you ? Tremble, sire, lest he should pun- 
ish you in like manner, should you abandon those 
whom he confides to you.” 

“ Valiant lord !” murmured Don Pedro, bowing, 
“but for pity’s sake,” added he turning pale at once 
with shame and anger, “ I owe you my crown ; do 
not be less merciful than the All-Powerful ; do not 
strike me, me who now thank you.” 

And he put one knee to the ground. Prince Ed- 
ward raised him up. 

“ Offer your thanks to God,” said he, “ to me 
you owe nothing.” 

Then the prince turned his back upon him, and 
entered his tent to take some refreshment, and for 
the first time during the day. 

“ My children,” cried Don Pedro at length giv- 
ing loose to his ferocious wish, “ despoil the dead : 
to you belongs the booty of the day !” 


And springing on a fresh horse, he bounded 
across the plain, stopping to examine every heap 
of dead bodies, and guiding his steed towards the 
river’s bank, on which Henry de Transtamara had 
fought against the Captal de Buch. 

When he reached the spot, he alighted from his 
horse, placed a long sharp-pointed dagger in his 
belt, and his feet plashing in the pools of gore, si- 
lently continued his search. 

“ Are you positive,” at length he said to Grailly, 
“ that you saw him fall ?” 

“ I am well assured of it,” replied the Captal, 
“ his horse fell from the blow of an axe, which my 
esquire throws with unrivalled skill.” 

“ But he ! but he !” 

“ He disappeared beneath a cloud of arrows, I 
saw blood upon his arms, and a whole mouutain of 
dead bodies rolled upon him, and completely cov- 
ered him.” 

“ Tis well ! tis well ! Let us continue our search,” 
replied Don Pedro with savage joy. “ Ah ! yonder 
I perceive a golden crest.” * 

And with the agility of a tiger, he bounded over 
the dead bodies, and dragged away those which 
covered that of the knight with the golden crest. 
Then with a trembling hand and dilated eyes, he 
raised the visor of the helmet. 

“ His esquire !” cried he With bitter disappoint- 
ment, “ tis but his esquire V* 

“But they are the ai ua of the prince,” said 
Grailly ; “ it is true three m no crown upon the 
helmet.” 

“ Crafty, crafty traitor 1 The coward has given 
his arms to hi? esquire, that he might fly more 
surely. But I had foremen all ; I had the plain 
surrounded, he cannot have crossed the river. — /\nd 
see, yonder are prisoners which my faithful Moors- 
are bringing in — he must certainly be found among 
them.”' 

“ Continue your search among the other bodies/’ 
said Grailly to the soldiers, “ and five hundred pi- 
astres to the man who shall find him living.” 

“ A thousand ducats to him who shall find him 
dead !” added Don Pedro. “ Now let us hasten 
to meet the prisoners Mothril is bringing in.” 

Don Pedro remounted his horse, and, followed 
by a numerous train of horsemen, eager to see the 
scene which was about to ensue, he galloped to- 
ward the other end of the plain, on which was seen 
a \ong line of Moors, in their white dresses, drivinsr 
before them a troop of runaways, whom they had 
captured. 

“ I think I see him ! I think I see him !” howled 
Don Pedro, urging his horse forward. 

He uttered these words at the moment he was 
! passing close before the Breton prisoners. Dugues- 
cli'nheard him, and with his eagle eye looked 
across the plain. 

“ Ah ! great God !” he exclaimed, “ what a mis- 
fortune !” 

! These words appeared-to Don Pedro a confirma- 
tion of the happiness he so eagerly desired. In or- 
der the better to enjoy this happiness, he determined 
: to overwhelm the constable by it, and thus strike, 

I at one blow, his two most powerful enemies. 

| “We will stay here,” he said, “ you, seneschal, 
ride on, and order Mothril to bring his prisoners to 
this spot — in sight of these Breton lords, the faith- 
ful friends of the usurper, of the vanquished ! — the 
champions of a cause in which they had no inter- 
est, and whose triumph they could not ensure 

To these sarcams, — to this vindictive rage, un- 
worthy of a man, the Breton hero did not even 
deign to utter a reply ; he did not even appear to 


& 

THE IKON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 168 


have heard the words Don Pedro had uttered He 
was seated ; he remained sitting, and went on con- 
versing, with seeming indifference, with Marshal 
d’Andrehan. 

Don Pedro had, however, alighted from his 
horse, and was leaning on a long battle-axe, and 
playing with the hilt of his dagger, stamping im- 
patiently with his feet, as if by that he could has- 
ten the arrival of Mothril fnd his prisoners. As 
soon as they came within reach of his voice, 

“ Well ! my brave Saracen,” cried the King to 
Mothril, “ my valiant white falcon, what game 
bring you here ?” 

“ Royal sport, my lord,” replied the Moor, “ see 
you this banner ?” 

He had rolled round his arm a piece of cloth of 
gold, embroidered with the arms of Transtamara. 

“ ’Tis he, then !” cried Don Pedro, transported 
with joy. “ He !” 

His threatening gestures were directed towards 
a knight, armed at all points, with a crown upon 
his helmet, but without sword or lance ; his arms 
bound round in a thousand turns of a silken cord, 
from the two ends of which hung a heavy ball of 
lead. 

“ Ho was flying,” said Mothril, “ I sent twenty 
of the desert horses after him ; the chief of my 
archers came up with him, but received a mortal 
wound ; but another threw the noosed rope over 
his horse’s neck and brought him to the ground. 
He had his banner in his hand. Unfortunately, 
one of his friends escaped, while he was opposing us.” 

“ Off with the crown ! off with it !” cried Don 
Pedro, brandishing his battle-axe. 

An archer approached, and cutting the knots of 
the gorget, brutally knocked off the helmet with its 
golden crown. 

A cry of terror and of rage escaped the lips of 
the King ; a loud and joyful hurrah ! was shouted 
by the Bretons. 

“ The bastard of Maul&>n 1” cried the latter. 
“ Joy ! joy !” 

“ Malediction ! the ambassador !” exclaimed 
Don Pedro. 

“ The Frank !” stammered Mothril with rage. 

“ Myself !” said Aglnor calmly, saluting Ber- 
trand and his friends with a glance. 

“ Ourselves !” said Musaron, rather pale, but 
who still distributed, right and left, kicks at the 
Moor’s shins. 

“ He has escaped then ?” said Don Pedro. 

“ Yes, in good faith, sire,” replied Agenor, “ I 
exchanged helmets with his majesty behind a 
bush, and I gave him my horse, which was quite 
fresh.” 

“ Thou shalt die !” howled Don Pedro, blinded 
by his rage. 

“ Touch him if you dare !” cried Bertrand, who 
gave a tremendous spring, and threw himself be- 
tween Agenor and Don Pedro. “ Kill a disarmed 
prisoner ! Oh ! you are craven enough for that.” 

“ Then, miserable adventurer, ’tis thou shalt 
die,” said Don Pedro, trembling, and foaming at 
the mouth. 

He rushed with his raised dagger upon Bertrand, 
who closed his fist as if he were about to fell a 
bull. 

But a hand was placed on Don Pedro’s shoulder, 
like the hand of Minerva, when she seized, as Ho- 
mer tells us, Achilles by the hair. 

“Pause!” said the Prince of Wales, “for you 
are about to entail eternal dishonor on your name. 
Pause, I say. King of Castille, and let fall your 
dagger. It is my will !” 


His nervous arm had fixed Don Pedro to the 

T ot ; the steel fell from the assassin’s hand. 

“ Then sell him to me, at the least,” vociferated 
the frantic king. “ I will pay you his weight in 
gold.” 

“ You insult me ! Beware !” replied the Black 
Prince. “ I am a man who would give you for 
Duguesclin his weight in precious stones ; and you 
would sell him to me, of that I feel assured. But 
he is mine, remember ! Avaunt !” 

“ King !” murmured Duguesclin, who could with 
difficulty be restrained, “ miserable king, who 
would massacre defenceless prisoners, we shall 
meet again.” 

“ I doubt it not,” said Don Pedro. 

“ I count upon it,” cried Bertrand. 

“ Immediately conduct, the Constable of France 
within my tent,” said the Black Prince. 

“ But one moment, most worthy prince, the 
king will thus remain with the bastard of Mau- 
ldon, and he would murder him.” 

“ Oh ! I will not say no,” replied Don Pedro, 
with a ferocious smile, “ but this one, I believe, is 
really my own.” 

Duguesclin shuddered, and cast an imploring 
look towards the Prince of Wales. 

“ Sire,” said the latter to Don Pedro, “ there 
shall not be a single prisoner killed on this great 
day.” 

“ Oh ! to that I will agree, not on this day,” re- 
plied Don Pedro giving a significant glance at 
Mothril. 

“ The day is hallowed by so great a victory, is 
it not so?” continued the Prince of Wales. 

“ Assuredly, my lord.” 

“ And you would wish to do me pleasure V 
Don Pedro bowed. 

“ I ask this young man of you,” said the 
prince. 

A profound silence followed these words, to 
which Don Pedro, pale with rage, for some time 
hesitated to reply. 

“ Oh ! my lord ,” said he at length, “ you make 
me feel that you are the master here, thus to de- 
prive me of my revenge.” 

“ If I am the master, it is to me to command,” 
exclaimed the Black Prince indignantly, “ unbind 
that knight, restore his arms to him, his horse !’ 

“ Joy ! joy, to the good Prince of Wales !” cried 
the Breton knights. 

“ Ransom, at least,” said Mothril, in order to gain 
time. 

The prince looked askance at the Moor. 

“ How much ?” said he with evident disgust. 
The Moor did not reply. The prince drew from 
his bosom a diamond cross, and held it to Mothril. 
“ There, infidel, take that !” he said. 

Mothril with terror bowed his head and murmur- 
ed the name of the Prophet. 

“You are free, sir knight,” said the prince to 
Maul4on, “ free ! you will return to France, and 
there announce that the Prince of Wales, delighted 
with the honor of possessing, though by force, and 
only for a season, the most redoubtable knight in all 
this world, will send back Bertrand Duguesclin sif- 
ter the campaign is ended, and without ransom.” 

“ An alms to those French beggars,” murmured 
Den Pedro. 

Bertrand heard him. “ My lord,” said he to tho 
prince, “ be not so generous with me ; your friends 
would make me blush for it. I belong to a master 
who would pay my ransom ten times over, were I 
to allow myself to be ten times taken, and were I 


164 the IRON HAND ; OR THE KNTOHT OF MAULICON. 


even to estimate myseJt, each time, at the price of 
a king.” 

“ Name your own ransom, then,” said the prince, 
courteously. 

Bertrand reflected for a moment. 

“ Sire,” said he “ I value my self at seventy thou- 
sand golden florins.” 

“ God be praised !” exclaimed Don Pedro, “ his 
pride destroys him ! King Charles V. could not 
find the one-half of that sum in the whole of 
France; 

“ That may be possible,” said Bertrand, “ but 
as the Knight of Mauleon is going to France, he 
will be pleased with an esquire to travel through 
Brittany, and there in every village, in every high 
road to proclaim these words, “ Bertrand Dugues- 
clin is prisoner to the English ! Spin, women of 
Brittany, spin ! from you he awaits his ransom.” 

“ I will do it, so help me Heaven !” exclaimed 
Mauleon. 

“ And you will assuredly bring the sum to my 
lord, before I shall have had time enough tn become 
weary of my captivity,” said Bertrand, “ and which 
I believe I should not, even where I to remain a 
prisoner all my life, being in the company of so 
generous a prince.” 

The Prince of Wales gave Bertrand his hand. 

“ Knight,” said he to Mauleon, who was over- 
joyed at being at liberty and having once more his 
sword, “ you have conducted yourself on this day j 
as a faithful soldier. You have deprived us of the j 
great prize for which this battle was fought by sa- 
ving Henry de Transtamara, but we feel no anger j 
at your having thus opened to us other fields of 
combat. Take this chain of gold, and this cross 
which the infidel refused.” 

He saw that Don Pedro was whispering to | 
Mothril and tha* the latter replied by a smile, the ! 
meaning of which Duguesclin appeared to dread, j 

“ Let no one stir from this spot !” cried the prince, ' 
“ I will punish with death any one who shall dare 
to cross the limits of our camp — were he a chief, 
were he a prince, were he even a king ! Chandos,” 
he continued, “ you are Lord Constable of England, 
and as a true knight, you will conduct the Sire de j 
Maul6on to the nearest town, and you will give 
him the necessary safe conduct.” 

Mothril being once more overthrown by this in- i 
telligent and persevering interpetation of his vile | 
stratagems, turned on his master a discouraged 1 ; 
glance j 

Don Pedro had fallen from the height of his tri- ( 
umphant joy ; his revenge was altogether foiled. 

Agdnor put one knee to the ground before the 
Prince of Wales, kissed Duguesclin’s hand, who 
caught him in his arms, saying to him in a whis- 
per, 

“ Tell the king, that our devourers are now 
gorged, that they will sleep for a while, and that 
if he will send my ransom. I will lead them where 
I promised. Tell my wile to sell the last piece of 
laud we have, for I shall have many Bretons to 
ransom ” 

Agdhor, who was much affected, mounted a good 
horse, bid a last adieu to his companions, and gal- 
loped off. 

Musaron said grumblingly, 

“ Who would ever have supposed that I should 
like an Englishman better than a Moor ” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

FEMALE PLOTTING. 

A moment after the victory had been decided in 
favor of Don Pedro ; that Duguesclin had fallen in- 
to the hands of his enemies ; and that Mauleon at 
the request of the constable had left the battle field 
to which he was to be brought back disguised in the 
helmet, and bearing the banner of King Henry, a 
courier left the-same battle-field, and pursued his 
way towards the village of Cuello. 

There were two women stationed at the distance 
of a hundred paces from each other, the one in a 
litter with an escort of Arabs, the other mounted 
on a mule, with a suite of Castillian knights, 
awaited with mingled feelings of fear and hope. 

Donna Maria, for she was the lady on the mule, 
feared that the loss of the battle would ruin the af- 
fairs of Don Pedro, and deprive him of his liberty. 

Aissa, who was in the litter, was praying that 
some event, whether victory or defeat, would res- 
tore her lover to her arms. The fall of Don Pedro, 
or the elevation of Henry, were matters of little 
import to her, provided that whether following the 
bier of the one, or the triumphal car of the other, 
she might once more see Agenor. 

The two women had met one evening, suffer- 
ing from this double grief. Maria was more than 
anxious, she was jealous. She knew that should 
his party be victorious, Mothril’s sole occupation 
would be to study the pleasures of the king. She 
had divined the whole of his policy ; and Aissa, in 
her simplicity, had confirmed this instinctive suspi- 
cion. 

Although the young girl was guarded by twenty 
slaves, trusty followers of Mothril, although the 
Moor, according to his custom, had her securely 
enclosed in a litter, Maria did not lose sight of 
her. 

The Moor, not being willing to expose the pre- 
cious treasure to the perils of a combat and to the 
brutality of the auxiliary soldiers, had left the lit- 
ter in the village of Cuello, which consisted only 
of some twenty miserable buildings, and which 
was at the distance of about two leagues from the 
battle-field of Navarrete. 

He had given the most precise orders to his 
slaves. In the first place, to wait for him and not 
allow any but himself to open the enclosed litter. 
Should he not return, should he be killed in the 
battle, he had given other injunctions which will 
be known hereafter. 

ATssa was, therefore, awaiting the isssue of the 
battle at the village of Cuello. 

As to Maria, Don Pedro, on quitting Burgos, 
had left her a sufficient guard. She was there to 
wait intelligence from him ; she had a large sum 
of money and quantities of jewels, and Don Pedro 
relied sufficiently on her dev ted love to feel as- 
sured that in the event of a reverse, Maria would 
be even more faithfully attached to him than dur- 
ing his prosperity. 

But Maria would not endure the torment of vul- 
gar minds, jealousy. She mistrusted Mothril, she 
feared the weakness of Don Pedro, and she thought 
Cuello at too short a distance from Navarrete. 

Therefore, taking with her six esquires and twen- 
ty men-at-arms, who were devoted friends rather 
than servitors, she mounted a chosen Arragonese 
mule, and without its being suspected by any one, 
encamped at the foot of a hill, behind which rose 
the houses of Cuello. 


165 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


She ascended the hill and saw the battalions of Leonora de Guzman, the mistress of Alonzo XI., 


either army advancing ; she might have seen the 
combat, but her heart failed her, the event was so 
imminently important. 

It was here that she had met Aissa. She had 
despatched an intelligent courier to the field of bat- 
tle, and was awaiting his return at a short distance 
from Aissa’s litter, which the slaves were guard- 
ing, lying upon the grass. 

The courier arrived and announced the gaining 
of the battle. Being a military man, and one of 
the chamberlains of Don Pedro’s palace, he knew 
the principal knights of the enemy’s army. He had 
seen Mauleon when received in solemn audience 
at Soria. Besides which, Maria had particularly 
described him to the courier, and he was easily 
recognised by the bar sinister which on his shield 
traversed the lion gules issuant. 

He came, therefore, to announce that Henry de 
Transtamara was vanquished, Mauleon had fled, 
and Duguesclin jvas a prisoner. 

This intelligence, although it gratified every feel- 
ing of her pride and her ambition, filled her heart 
with jealous fear. Don Pedro, a conqueror, re-es- 
tablished on his throne, was the dream of her love 
and her desire ; but Don Pedro, fortunate, envied, 
exposed to the temptations of Mothril, was an ap- 
palling phantom to that anxious, devoted love. 

She knew the inherent obstinacy of Don Pedro’s 
character : she feared that should he once become 
really enamoured of Aissa, that from that moment all 
her power was lost, and the ambitious hopes she had 
indulged in for the aggrandizement of her own chil- 
dren, would vanish like unstable dreams. She remem- 
bered to have heard of the atrocities he had commit- 
ted in his youth, at the time that his father’s* court 
was held in Seville, when, with his companions, the 
t( minions of the Moon,” he was the terror of every 
family, although for a long period it was not known 
that it was the heir to the crown of Castile and 
Leon who was the perpetrator of these atrocities. 
No family, however noble or respectable, wus safe 
from his unprincipled attacks. Wherever there was 
a woman of superior beauty, these minions of the 
Moon would in the absence of the husband or the 
father, attack the house and carry her off in secret, 
and then as secretly conduct her back to it, after 
having subjected her to the most gross indignities. 

From their mode of action, it might have been 
conceived that they had spies in every family, so 
well were they informed of the moment when they 
could with the greatest impunity commence their 
attacks. But the presence even of a husband or a 
father was not always a safeguard to their honor. 
The minions were always masked and they would 
burst into a house at dead of night, bind all the male 
inhabitants and carry of the woman whom they had 
come to seek. 

Donna Maria Padilla knew all this, but there 
was another circumstance of which she had also 
been informed, and which led her to reflect more 
deeply still, for it convinced her that when Don 
Pedro’s heart was really touched by passion, no 
earthly consideration could prevent his following it 
up until its final gratification. 

The history in itself is of so romantic a nature 
that we are induced to give it to our readers. 

* The valiant Don Alonzo, the IX King of Castile and 
Leon, siunained the Avenger, so celebrated in his wars 
against the Moors. He died while laying siege to Gibral- 
tar, after having taken from them Valencia and Aigesiras. 
The conduct of his son, Don Pedro, deeply afflicted him, 
and before his death he declared that he desired that his 
natural sor., Don Henry de Transtamara, should succeed 
him. -Ira * 


and the mother of Don Henry de Transtamara, nad 
in her suite at the court of Seville, a lovely girl na- 
med Genoveva. Don Pedro chanced to see her one 
day when he had been summoned to the palace by 
his father, and at first sight, struck by her surpass- 
ing beauty and the ingenuous modesty of her de- 
meanor, he became enamoured of her. Don 
| Alonzo had sent for his son to reprove him for 
his outrageous conduct toward a Dominican friar 
who had ventured to expostulate with him on the 
disorderly life he led, Don Pedro’s only reply to 
which had been a severe blow with the hilt of his 
poniard on the head of the poor aged monk, whom 
he left bleeding on the ground. 

Don Pedro feigned to be very penitent, said that 
at the moment this accident had occurred he was 
much heated with wine, and promised to reform — 
As a proof of his repentance he voluntarily offered 
to confine himself within the limits of the palace 
during a whole month. Don Alonzo was surprised 
j at this sudden contrition on the part of his son, but 
I gladly accepted the proposal, thinking it a good 
earnest of his intentions. 

But this seeming humility on the part of Don 
Pedro was merely to cloak the designs he had in 
an instant formed on Genoveva. By thus remain- 
ing in the palace he hoped to have frequent oppor- 
l tunities of conversing with her. 

It was however some days before he could gain 
sight of her, for Leonora de Guzman, having been 
informed by Don Alonzo of Don Pedro’s determi- 
nation, and Genoveva having mentioned to her that 
she had met Don Pedro in the corridor, desired her 
to remain in her . own apartment, for she mat h 
feared that he had some hidden object in this sud- 
den reformation. 

At length one morning Don Pedro perceived 
Genoveva as she was proceeding to the chapel in 
the palace ; he entered it after her, and kneeling 
by her, entreated her to grant him a few moments’ 
interview. The poor innocent girl flattered by the 
attention thus paid her by the heir to the throne, at 
last yielded to his solicitation and promised to meet 
him on the following morning in the palace garden. 
These interviews were repeated, and Don Pedro 
became every day more and more charmed with 
the beauty and accomplishments of his adored Gen- 
oveva. At length he became so earnest in his pro- 
testations that the virtue of the young girl took the 
alarm, and she communicated all that had passed 
between them to Leonora de Guzman. 

This lady, in order *o shield her lovely attendant 
from the licentious pursuits of Don Pedro, persuaded 
a cousin of her own, a man somewhat advanced in 
years, Don Diego Meneses, to marry Genoveva, 
thus giving her a powerful protector, for Don Diego 
was Grand Justiciary of Seville 

The marriage was privately solemnized, and Don 
Diego repaired with his beauteous wife to his house 
on the borders of the Guadalquiver. 

Donna Leonora de Gunman gave it out at court 
that Genoveva had retned to a convent and was 
about to take the veil. 

Don Pedro, through the minions of the Moon, was 
soon informed of the red state of matters, and deter- 
mined to avenge himsdf on Donna Leonora and Don 
Diego. But in this there was great difficulty, for 
the Grand Justiciary was of a most jealous dispo- 
sition, and fully determined to protect the honor of 
his wife. 

His house was situated on an isthmus of the riv- 
er, forming almost an island, the back part of the 
house being beneath a rocky precipice three hun- 




166 THE IRON HAND: OR THE ENT OHT OF MAULEON. 


dred feet in height. On the river’s side it could be 
only approached by one sole landing. 

Don Pedro conceived the bold idea of throwing 
a ladder of ropes from the summit of the rocky pre- 
cipice ; the lower part of this was furnished with 
hooks to catch upon a balcony on the first floor of 
the house. One night, at twelve o’clock, Don Pe- 
d» o with one of his minions, having firmly secured 
the ladder, descended by it and entered the window 
opening on the balcony, which was that of Genove- 
va’s room. Don Pedro ordered his minion to lie flat 
upon the balcony, and not to move until he called 
him. He then entered the room which was com- 
pletely vacant. He determined to await there, and 
a few minutes afterwards heard steps advancing in 
the corridor ; he concealed himself behind the cur- 
tains in the alcove ; a person entered the room, but 
instead of Genoveva it was the Grand Justiciary 
himself, having a long rapier in one hand and a 
torch in the other. He discovered Don Pedro in his 
hiding place, and pretending to believe that he was 
a common robber, struck him several blows with the 
hilt of his sword. 

“ Strike with the point,” cried the infuriated Don 
Pedro, “ if thou darest.” 

The Grand Justiciary was too loyal a Spaniard to 
murder the heir apparent to the throne. He there- 
fore merely desired him to withdraw, but insisted 
that as he had entered his house by the window he 
should leave it by the same issue. 

Don Diego Meneses was perfectly convinced that 
Don Pedro had come there by appointment with his 
wife, and he determined on wreaking on them the 
most horribl revenge. He repaired to Africa, where 
the plague was then raging, and having purchased 
tl*. garments of some ladies of the highest rank 
who had fallen victims to the horrible contagion, he 
returned to Seville. He had sent a forged letter to 
Don Pedro from Genoveva, informing him that her 
husband was absent a»nd entreating him to deliver , 
her from the horrible captivity to which Don Die- 
go’s jealousy had subjected her. 

In the meantime the High Justiciary, on his arri- 
val at his house, had shown the magnificent dresses | 
he had purchased to his wife, and telling her that i 
he expected friends to dine with him, requested her j 
to attire herself in the most sumptuous of them, | 
which she did. Shortly after this, Don Pedro and 
his minions arrived, entered the house, and finding 
Genoveva, the prince rushed to embrace her. She 
was already livid from the attacks of the fearful 
scourge, and at this moment Meneses appeared, also 
in a dying state, and declared the nature of the mal- 
ady. The minions of the Moon fled precipitately. 
Dun Pedro remained hanging over his beloved 
Genoveva until she expired. Meneses had been 
dead some minutes. But strange to say Don Pe- 
dro felt not the slightest symptom of attack. 

The remembrance of the devoted attachment 
which Don Pedro had shown on this occasion filled 
the mind of Maria Padilla with terror when she re- 
flected on his growing passion for Aissa. And she 
endeavored to devise the safest means for removing 
so powerful a rival. 

With that audacity which characterized her, 
she at once decided on the course of action she 
would pursue. She ordered, the men-at-arms to 
follow her, and descended the hill conversing with 
her messenger. 

“ You say that the bastard of Mauleon has 
fled?” she enquired. 

“ As flies the lion, lady, beneath a cloud of ar- 
rows.” 

The messenger was speaking of the first flight 


of Mauleon, for he had left the field before Agenor 
had been brought back disguised as Henry. 

“ Where is it supposed that he was going?” 

“To France, as when a bird escapes it flies to 
its own nest.” 

“ ’Tis natural,” thought she. “ But tell me, sir 
knight, how many days journey is it hence to 
France?” 

“ Twelve, madam, for a lady like yourself.” 

“ But for a. person making his escape — like the 
bastard of Mauleon, for example?” 

“ Oh ! madam, in three days he m’ght defy his 
most bitter enemy to reach him. Moreover, this 
young man is not pursued ; they have the con- 
stable.” 

“ And Mothril, what has become of him ?” 

“ He had been ordered to surround the plain to 
prevent the escape of run-a-ways, and above all, 
of Henry de Transtamara, should he still be liv- 
ing.” 

“ He will not then trouble himself further as to 
Mauleon,” thought Maria. “ Follow me, cheva- 
lier.” 

She approached Aissa’s litter ; but as she drew 

near with her escort, the Moorish slaves rose from 

the grass on which they had been negligently 

dozing. 

© 

“ Answer me,” cried Maria, “ who commands 
here?” 

“I do, Senora,” said the chief, who was more- 
over to be distinguished by the purple on his tur- 
ban and his streaming sash. 

“ I wish to speak to the young woman who is 
concealed in that litter.” 

“ Impossible, Senora,” laconically replied the 
chief. 

“ Perhaps you do not know me.” 

“ Oh ! yes, perfectly,” said the Moor, with a 
slight smile, “you are Donna Maria Padilla.” 

“ You ought, then, to know that I can command 
in the name of Don Pedro ?” 

“ The people of Don Pedro, yes,” gravely re- 
plied the Moor, “ but not thosr of the Saracen 
Mothril.” 

Donna Maria saw this commencement of re- 
sistance with some anxiety. 

“ Have you orders to the contrary ?” said she in 
a gentle tone. 

“ I have, Senora.” 

“ At least you will tell me what they are ?” 

“ To any other but yourself, Senora, I should 
refuse to reveal them ; but to you, all-powerful, I 
will do so. Should the battle be lost, and should 
Lord Mothril be delayed, I am to deliver Donna 
Aissa to him alone. 

“ The battle has been gained,” said Donna 
Maria. 

“ Then Mothril will come.” 

“ Should he have been killed?” 

“ In that case,” imperturbably continued the 
Moor, “ I am to conduct the lady Aissa to the 
king, Don Pedro; for it would be but natural that 
the king should become the guardian of the daugh- 
ter of a man who will have died for him.” 

Maria shuddered. 

“ But he lives, he is coming, and in the mean 
time I may surely say two words to Donna Aissa 
Do you hear me, Senora?” said Maria, in a loudel 
tone. 

“ Madame !” eagerly said the chief, approach 
ing the litter, “ dc not compel the Senora to speak 
to you, for I have a still more terrible order should 
such an event occur.” 

“ And what i® that C* 


f 


TFTE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


167 


“ I am to kill her with my own hand, should 
any communication between her and a stranger 
sully the honor of my master, or oppose his will.” 

Donna Maria shrunk back with terror. She 
knew the customs of the people and the country, 
customs savage and intractable. The slave would 
blindly execute the orders of the master, however 
brutal they might be. 

She returned to her knight, who awaited, lanee 
in hand, with his men-at-arms all as motionless as 
statues of iron. 

“ I must have that litter,” said she, “ but it is 
well defended, and the chief of the Moors threat- 
ens to kill the woman who is behind the curtains 
should any one approach her.” 

The knight was a Castilian, that is to say, full of 
gallantry and imagination. He had an inventive 
genius, and strength and courage to execute his 
purpose. 

“ Lady,” said he, “ that rascal with his yellow 
face excites my laughter, and I am enraged at his 
having alarmed your ladyship. He does not surely 
reflect that should I nail him with my lance to the 
shaft of the litter, he could not kill the lady it en- 
• closes.” 

“ Oh ! kill a man who but faithfully obeys his 
orders.” 

*• Only see what good guard he keeps ; he has 
ordered his companions to prepare their arms.” 

These words were uttered in pure Castilian. 
The Moors looked at him with staring eyes, for 
they understood the Arabic, which Donna Maria 
had spoken to them ; if they understood the threat- 
ening gestures of the men-at-arms, tiiey did not 
understand Spanish. 

“ See, madam, they will be the first to attack 
us, if we do not retire. They are blood-thirsty 
dogs, those Moors,” said the captain, feeling a great 
inclination to display his courage while looked up- 
on by the beautiful eyes of so. lovely and noble a 
lady. 

“ Wait ! wait a moment,” said Donna Maria, 
“ do you think they do not understanu Castilian?” 

“ I am sure of it. Speak to them, Senora, and 
you will see.” 

“ I have another idea,” said Maria Padilla. — 
“ Donna Aissa,” she continued, in a loud voice, 
but turning towards the captain, “ you no doubt 
hear me ; if you do, shake the curtains of the lit- 
ter.” 

At these words the silken curtains were seen to 
shake several times. The Moors did not stir, being 
occupied in observing the men-at-arms. 

“ You see that not even one of them turned 
round to look,” said the knight. 

“ It may, perhaps, be only a feint,” said Donna 
Maria, “ let us still wait awhile.” Then she con- 
tinued to address Aissa in the same manner. 

“ Your litter is guarded only on one side. The 
Moors who are completely occupied in observing 
us, '.eave the other side of the litter perfectly un- 
• no*, led. If the litter is closed, cut the curtains with 
y'nr knife, and slip out of it. There is a large tree 
about two hundred paces off, behind which you 
can conceal yourself, obey promptly: that you may 
be able to rejoin the person that you know of, I 
have brought you the means. 

Scarcely had Padilla uttered these words, which 
she did as if she had been talking on indifferent sub- 
jects to the knight, than the litter was observed 
slightly to oscillate. The knight and his men made 
a sort of hostile movement towards the Moors, who 
on their side advanced, bending their bows and pre- 
ying their clubs. 


However the Castilians with their faces turned 
towards the litter had seen the lovely Aissa flying 
swiftly as a doe across the open space between the 
litter and the majestic oak. When sh© had reach- 
ed it, 

“ Well then, fear nothing,” said Donna Maria to 
the Moors ; “ guard your treasure, we will not 
touch it : only stand aside and allow us to pass by.” 

The chief, whose features immediately brightened 
up, stepped aside, bowing ; his companions imitated 
him, and Donna Maria and her escort passed on 
in all security and placed themselves between 
Donna Aissa, and the men who l]ad so lately been 
her jailers. 

Aissa had perfectly comprehended everything, 
and when she saw spread before her the guardian 
wall of twenty mail-clad men, she threw herself 
into Maria’s arms, and fervently kissed her hands. 

The chief of the Moorish archers saw that the 
litter was empty, understood the stratagem, 
and uttered a cry of rage. He saw that he 
had been duped, that he was lost. For one mo- 
ment he entertained the thought of falling upon 
Maria’s men at arms, but terrified at the unequal 
nature of the combat, he preferred jumping upon 
a horse which one of his men was holding and gal- 
loped off towards the battle-field. 

“ There is not a moment to be lost,” said Donna 
Maria to the knight. “ My lord I shall be ever 
grateful to you, if you can succeed in bearing off 
this lady from Mothril’s power, and in conducting 
her upon the road which the Knight of Mauleon 
has taken.” 

“ Madam,” replied the knight, “ Mothril is the 
favorite of our king ; this lady is his daughter, and 
consequently belongs to him. I shall therefore be 
robbing him of his daughter. 

“You will be obliging me, Sir Knight.” 

“ That is more than sufficient, madam ; and 
should I perish I shall willingly have lost my life 
to save you. But if the king Don Pedro should find 
that I have left the post which he had ordered me 
to maintain near you, what can I reply? The 
fault would be a much more serious one, for I should 
have disobeyed my king.” 

'“'You are right, my lord; it shall never be said 
that the life and honor of so brave a knight as you 
are, has been sacrificed to the caprice of a woman. 
Show us the road, Donna Aissa will get on horse- 
back and we will accompany her as far as the road 
which the bastard of Mauleon has taken, and there 
— well, there we will leave her, and you shall bring 
me back.” 

But such was not the intention of Donna Maria; 
she only intended to gain time by thus appearing to 
yield to the scruples of the knight. She was a 
woman accustomed to have a purpose of her own 
and to succeed in it. She relied on her good for- 
tune. 

The knight adapted the pace of his war steed to 
that of Donna Maria’s mule. They placed Aissa 
on a white mule of rare strength and beauty, the 
escort then set off at a gallop and cutting across the 
plain to the left of the field of battle, went at full 
speed towards the road to France which was traced 
along the horizon by high birch trees then bending 
to a fresh easterly wind. 

No one spoke : their only thought was to in- 
crease the speed of their foaming horses. They 
had already gone two leagues, the battle field was 
chequered with black stains from the blood of tha 
killed, with heaps of dead bodies, and the crops 
which had been trampled under foot, when Maria 
sa.v a knight riding at full gallop towards her,— 


J68 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON 


She instantly recognised his plume and his sword 
belt. 

“ Don Ayalos !” cried she to the prudent messen- 
ger, who was already making a turn to avoid what 
might have been an unfortunate rencounter, “is that 
you 

“Yes, nobte lady,” replied the Castilian knight, 
recognizing the voice of the king’s mistress, “ it is I, 
aud at your service.” 

“ What news ?” said Maria, stopping short her 
vigorous mule. 

“ Strange news. They thought they had taken 
King Henry de Transtamara. Mothril had gone 
in pursuit of those who had fled from the field, but 
on raising the visor of the unknown, who wore the 
helmet of the king, they found it was was the 
knigh t of Mauleon, the French Ambassador, who 
allowed himself to be taken, to ensure the escape of 
Don Henry” 

Aissa uttered a loud shriek. 

“ He is taken !” she cried. 

“ He is taken,” replied Ayalos, “ and when I 
left the field, the king, maddened with rage, was 
threatening his life.” 

Aissa raised her eyes to -heaven in despair. 

“ He will kill him !” she exclaimed, “ oh ! im- 
oossible.” 

“ He was at one time about to kill the constable 
himself.” 

“ He shall not die. I will myself prevent it,” 
cried the despairing girl, urging her mule toward 
the battle field. 

“Aissa ! Aissa ! you will bring ruin upon me and 
on yourself,” said Donna Maria. 

“ He shall not die! I will not have him die !” 
frantickly shrieked Aissa, and she continued to 
press on. 

Donna Maria was endeavoring to recover her ; 
self-possession and to devise some means of ward- 
ing off the fatal consequences of this disaster, when 
they suddenly heard the tramp of horses rapidly s 
approaching them. 

“We are lost,” said the knight, rising in his 
stirrups ; “ it is a squadron of Moors advancing 
quicker than the wind, and there is the chief in ad- 
vance of them.” 

The feelings of Aissa and Maria Padilla on re- 
ceiving this appalling intelligence were of a very 
opposite nature although -almost equally agonizing. 
They gazed upon each other with despairing looks. 

Aissa had been completely overwhelmed with 
the news the knight had brought of the recapture 
of her lover, and her feelings were the more acute 
from her having, for a few minutes enjoyed the 
delightful certainty of his escape, and possibility of 
her rejoining him before the lapse of many hours. 
Buoyed up with such a hope, she would have rid- 
den hours without even dreading the fatigues and 
dangers attendant on such a rapid journey ; Agenor 
was her life, her soul, her world. Without him ex- 
istence would become a void* a blank, and death 
itself a thousand times more preferable. Hence 
her despairing exclamations, her determination to 
face every peril 10 save the life of one whom she 
considered as her husband, the arbiter of her own 
destiny. S'he pictured to herself the cruel vindic- 
tiveness of Don Pedro ; in her imagination she saw 
him aiming his ponderous battle axe at that head 
which but four days before she had encircled with 
her arms, and she saw those lips on which she had 
imprinted her burning kisses cold aud livid, exhaling 
their last sigh, and breathing their last prayer for 
their beloved Ais a a. She saw Mothril gloating his 
vengeance with the lost agonies of one whom he 


had so unceasingly pursued w' h demoniac hatred 
She shrieked with terror at the thought that even 
her devotedness could not now avert the cruel 
massacre. The cause which thus again had 
placed his life in fearful jeopardy, but ennobled him 
still more in her eyes, for he had perilled life and 
love to save the existence of a monarch whose 
cause he had espoused. Could she have given a 
thousand lives to save him she would have sacri- 
ficed them all without a moments’ hesitation. Could 
she have avoided the: approaching troop of Moorish 
horsemen she would have urged her steed across 
the plain, and have flown to her Agenor. 

The crafty combinations of Maria Padilla were 
all at once destroyed by the untoward intelligence 
brought by the Castilian knight. Her jealous fears 
of Aissa now returned, and with redoubled force. 
Again would she be exposed to the ardent gaze of 
the unprincipled Don Pedro ; again would Mothril’s 
ambitious views lead him to use his daughter as the 
certain means of confirming the ascendancy he had 
obtained over the mind of the luxurious monarch. 
She felt that should Don Pedro once more behold 
Aissa, her own disgrace was inevitable : she 
would be banished from the court, and perhaps im- 
mured in some far distant fortress, there to eke out 
the remainder of her miserable existence. Though 
determined not to abdicate a power she so lqng 
had wielded, without a struggle, she felt convinced 
that Aissa’s beauty and accomplishments were 
antagonists too powerful, successfully to contend 
against. But Maria was a woman of too proud a 
nature to allow the workings of her soul to be be- 
trayed by any appearance of terror or timidity, and 
she eyed the approaching horsemen with more of 
curiosity than alarm. 

As they advanced, and on perceiving Aissa 
they uttered a terrific shout of exultation, and 
before Aissa could turn her mule to fly in an- 
other direction this furious cavalcade, overwhelm- 
ing as a wave, surrounded her, the whole escort and 
j Donna Maria herself, who, pale and almost fainting, 
pressed close to the knight, whose intrepidity did 
not abandon him for a moment. 

Then Mothril, on his Arab horse, advanced from 
the group seized the bridle of Aissa’s mule, and 
in a voice stifled with fury, cried, 

“ Where go you ?” 

“In search of Don Agenor, whom you wish to 
kill,” she replied.' 

“ Ah !” exclaimed he with a frightful grinding of 
his teeth, “ and in company with Donna Maria, I 
see it now ; I see through it all.” 

The expression of his features became so terrific 
that, the knight placed his lance in rest. 

Had there been the slightest chance of escape, 
Maria Padilla would have persuaded the knight 
who commanded her detachment to continue their 
course towards the road to France ; but the Moors 
who were pursuing them were mounted on fleet 
coursers of the desert, and her mail-clad followers, 
with their heavy horses, could not pretend to vie in 
speed with the lightly accoutered Saracens, 

“ Twenty only, against a hundred and twenty l 
exclaimed the latter, “ we are lost.” 


THE IRON HAND : OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAIJLEON. 169 



CHAPTER XL VI 

THE TRUCE. 

But the combat was not what Mothril wished. 
He turned gently towards the plain, gave a last 
look at the field of battle, and addressing Maria 
Padilla:— “I thought, madame,” he said, “ that 
our seigneur the king had fixed upon a spot as a 
retreat for you; has he changed his mind, and are 
you obeying a fresh order?” 

“ Orders?’ replied the proud Castilian; “do 
you forget, Saracen, that you speak to her who 
is in the habit, not of receiving, but of giving 
them.” 

Mothril bowed. “ But, madame” he said, “ if 
you have the privilege of acting as you please, you 
do not suppose you have the power of disposing of 
Donna Aissa at your will; Donna Aissa is my 
daughter.” 


A'issa prepared to reply by some fiiriou/ 
exclamation ; Maria interrupted her. 

“ Seigneur Mothril,” she said, “ God forbitf 
that I should bring trouble into your house, 
those who wish to be respected, respect others. 
I saw Donna A'issa alone, in tears, and dying with 
inquietude, I brought her with me.” 

Aissa could refrain no longer. “ Agenor!” she 
cried, “ what have you done with my Chevalier 
Don Agenor de Mauleon?” 

“ Ah!” said Mothril, “ is it not the seigneur for 
whom my daughter is in trouble?” And a 
sinister smile flashed across his contracted phy- 
siognomy. 

Maria made no reply. 

“ Is it not to this seigneur that, in charity, you 
were conducting my weeping child?” continued 
Mothril, addressing Maria. “ Say, madame.” . 

“Yes,” said A'issa, “and I persist in seeking 
him. Ah ! your look no longer affrights me, my 


170 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


tattler. When Aissa wills, she wills imperatively. 
I will find Don Agenor de Mauleon; conduct me 
to him.” 

“ To an infidel!” said Mothril, whose features, 
more and more disordered, became livid. 

“To an infidel, yes; for this infidel is — ” 

Maria interrupted her. “Here is the king!” 
she exclaimed; “he is coming towards us.” 

The Moor immediately made a sign to his 
slaves. Aissa was surrounded, separated from 
Maria Padilla.” 

“You have killed him! you have killed him!” 
exclaimed the young girl. “Well! I will also die!” 
She drew from her golden sheath a small blade, 
as sharp as the tooth of an adder, and which shot 
forth a brilliant ray underneath the sun of the 
plain. 

Mothril threw himself towards her — all his fury 
had abandoned him, all his ferocity had given 
place to the most painful anxiety. “ No!” he said, 
“ no ! he lives, he lives !” 

“ Who will assure me of it?” replied the young 
girl, interrogating the Moor with a regard of fire. 

“Ask the king himself: will you believe the 
king?” 

“ ’Tis well, demand it of him, and let him re} ly.” 

Don Pedro approached. Maria Padilla threw 
herself in his arms. 

“ Seigneur,” said Mothril on a sudden, whose 
head seemed ready to drop, “ is it true that this 
Prenchman, this Mauleon, is dead?” 

“ No, by hell!” said the king, in a sombre tone; 
“ no! I have not had it in my power even to strike 
this traitor, this demon; no, he flies, the miser- 
able, sent back to Prance by the Black Prince; he 
flies, free, happy, and laughing, like the sparrow 
escaped from the vulture.” 

“ He flies!” repeated Donna Aissa; “ he flies! is 
it really true?” And her regard questioned every 
one present. 

But, in the interval, Maria Padilla, wdio had 
received positive news, and who knew how 
to act respecting the safety of Mauleon, made 
a sign to the young girl that she could re- 
main, and that her lover was safe and sound. 
Immediately the delirium of the young girl was 
appeased, like the tempest abates at the return of 
the sun. She allowed herself to be conducted by 
Mothril, whom she followed w r ith her head bent 
down, without perceiving that the king, Don 
Pedro, fixed upon her a passionate regard, 
absorbed as she was by the sole idea that Agenor 
still lived, by the single hope that she might once 
more se«e him. 

This regard of the king, Maria Padilla noticed, 
and divined the meaning; but, at the same time, 
she read on the visage of the young Moorish girl 
the deep disgust which the cruel words of Don 
Pedro, respecting Agenor, had raised in her. “No 
matter,” she said, “ Aissa shall not remain at the 
court; she shall go, I will unite her to Mauleon. 
It must be so! Mo thrill will oppose it with all his 
power; but all lies there - Mothril or I must fall in 
the struggle.” And as she finished forming her 
project, she heard the king sigh in the ear of 
the Moor: — 

“The fact is, she is really very beautiful! I 
have never seen her so beautiful as she is to- 
day.” 

Mothril smiled. 

k - Yes!” continued Maria, pale wfith jealousy, 
“here is the whole cause of the w r ar!” 

The return of Don Pedro to Burgos was cele- 
brated with all the splendor that a decisive 
victory gives to legitimate power. The rebels had 


nothing more to hope for, they submitted, and 
the enthusiasm of their recantation was as power- 
ful as the entreaties of the Prince of Wales to 
change into mildness the usual cruelty of Don 
Pedro. The prince, therefore, contented bin. self 
with hanging a dozen of the bourgeois, to have 
beaten by the soldiers a hundred ol the most 
signal mutineers, and to levy a few heavy contri- 
butions for his treasury on one of the richest 
towns of Spain. And now, being tired of these 
furious struggles, seeing fortune smile upon him, 
and feeling the necessity of reposing his mind and 
heart in the sunshine of gay fetes, he made of 
Burgos a royal town. Balls and tournays suc- 
ceeded each other without interruption; dignities 
and rewards were distributed; they forgot w r ar, 
they almost forgot hatred. Still Mothril watched} 
but, instead of occuping himself as a prudent minis- 
ter with events, or a probable breaking oiit of war, 
he allowed the king to sleep in profound security. 

Already had Don Pedro dismissed the English, 
discontented; a few strong places, left in the 
power of the latter, but ill indemnified them, and 
dangerously so, for the expenses of the war. 
The Prince of Wales had made and presented 
his account to his ally. The sum was frightful. 
Don Pedro, considering it perilous to levy taxes 
at the moment of a res* oration, demanded time 
to pay it. But the English prince knew his ally, 
he would not wait. There was then round Don 
Pedro, even in his prosperity, the germs of such 
misfortunes, that the most unhappy prince, the 
farthest ruined of all the conquered, would have 
preferred his own condition. But this was the 
moment awaited by Mothril, and perhaps, foreseen 
by him. \V ithout affecting to be moved, he 
smiled at the pretensions of the English, in 
suggesting to the Spanish prince, that 1*00,000 
Saracens were well worth 10,000 English, would 
cost less, would open to Spain the road to an 
African sovereignty, and that a double crown 
would be the result of this policy. He then' 
whispered, at the same time, that the only means 
of solidly uniting the two crowns on one head, 
was an alliance; that a daughter of the ancient 
Arab princes, of the venerated blood of the 
caliphs, seated at the side of Don Pedro oil the 
throne of Castile, would rally, in one year, the 
whole of Africa, all the East, in fact, on the same 
throne. And this daughter of the caliphs, we 
may well surmise, was Aissa. Henceforth the 
road was level tor the Moor. He approached th-3 
realization of his dreams. Mauleon w r as no longer 
an obstacle, since he had departed. Besides, was 
he really an obstacle? Who was this Mauleon? 
A chevalier, a dreamer, loyal, frank, and credu- 
lous! Was this an antagonist for the sombre and 
wiiy Mothril to fear? The serious obstacle, then, 
arose from Aissa, from Aissa alone. But force 
subdues all resistance. It was only necessary to 
prove to the young girl an infidelity on the part 
of Mauleon. This was an easy affair, since w hen 
have the Arabs refused to* make use either of' 
espionnage to discover the truth, or false evidence 
to support a lie? Another hindrance, more 
serious, and which caused the Moor to knit his 
brow, was that proud and handsome woman - that 
woman still all-powerful over the mind of Don 
Pedro, from the habit and domination of pleasure. 

Maria Padilla, since she had comprehended the 
plans of Mothril, laboured to countermine them 
with an ability, worthy in every way of her rare 
and exquisite nature. She knew, even to the 
slightest desire of Don Pedro; she captivated lus 
attention; she extinguished the slightest spar* 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE KNTOHT OF MAULEON. 


171 


whi*h she had not lighted. Docile, when she was 
alone with Don Pedro, imperious before all, 
always mistress, she continued to entertain with 
Aissa, whom she had made her friend, a secret 
intelligence. Speaking to her constantly of 
Mauleon, she prevented her thinking of Don 
Pedro; and, besides, the warm and faithful young 
creature needed not to be reminded of her love ; 
her love, we may be well assured, would not 
cease but with her life. Mothril, as yet, had been 
unable to surprise these mysterious conversations, 
his suspicion slept; he saw but one, of the threads 
of the intrigue, the one he held, the other escaped 
him, lost in a mist full of artifice. 

Aissa had not again appeared at court; she 
awaited, silently, the realization of a promise 
made by Maria, to give her certain news of her 
lover. And, indeed, Maria had dispatched to 
France an emissary, charged to find out Mauleon, 
to inform him of the situation of affairs, and to 
bring back from him a remembrance to the poor 
Moorish girl, lanquishing in the expectation of a 
speedy reunion. This emissary, an expert moun- 
taineer, and upon whom she could rely, was no 
other than the son of the old nurse, with whom 
Mauleon had encountered her disguised as a 

g»>y- 

Such was the position of affairs in Spain and 
France; thus were opposed to each other two 
living interests, furious enemies, who only waited 
to rush upon each other, the moment they should 
acquire, by repose and study, all the fullness of 
their strength. 

We can now, therefore, return to the Bastard 
of Mauleon, who, excepting the tenacious love 
that was to bring him back to Spain, returned to 
his country, light, joyous, and proud of being 
free, as the sparrow mentioned by the king of 
Castile. 


CHAPTER XLYIL 

THE JOURNEY. 

Agenor comprehended all the difficulty of his 
position. To be at liberty, by the generosity of 
the Prince of Wales, was a privilege of which 
many might envy him the continuance. Agenor 
urged on his horse as much as he could. Thanks 
to the pressing invitations of Musaron, who, 
shaking his ears in the joy of still possessing 
them, made use of all his eloquence to point out 
the danger of a pursuit, and the delights of a 
return to one’s country. But the honest Musaron 
lost his time, Agenor did not listen to him. 
Separated from Aissa, the chevalier had nothing 
but his body; his soul was in Spain, uneasy, 
suffering, lost. Yet such was at this period the 
sentiment of duty, that Mauleon, whose heart 
was indignant at the idea of quitting his mistress, 
and beat with joy at the idea of going secretly to 
find her, that Mauleon, we say, bravely continued 
his road at the risk of losing for ever his pretty 
Aissa, to accomplish the mission with which the 
constable had charged him. The poor horse had 
been too little humoured; the noble animal, 
which had supported the fatigues of the war, and 
obeyed the amorous caprices bf his master, 
dropped from weariness at Bordeaux, where 
Mauleon abandoned him, to take him again on 
his return. From thence, changing horses, and 
inventing the system of the post long before 
Louis XL, of ingenious memory, our traveller fell 
unexpected, frightened, and fatigued, at the feet 
of the good hang Charles, who was nailing up 


his peach trees in* the beautiful garden of the 
Hotel Saint Paul. “ Oh ! oh ! what’s this, and 
what are you come to announce to me, Sire de 
Mauleon?” said King Charles, whom nature had 
endowed with the privilege, when he had once 
seen a man, of always recognising him. 

“ Sire king,” replied Agenor, placing one knee 
on the ground, “ I come to announce to you sad 
news; your army has been beaten in Spain.” 

“ May the will of God be done!” replied the 
prince, turning pale. “ But the army will rally?” 

“ There is no longer an army, sire!” 

“ God is merciful,” said the king, in a lower 
tone. “ How is the constable?” 

“ Sire, the constable is a prisoner of the 
English.” 

The king heaved a smothered sigh, but offered 
not a word. But, almost immediately, his brow 
became serene. “ Recount the battle to me,” he 
said, a moment afterwards. “ Where did it take 
place, to begin with?” 

“ At Navarrete, sire.” 

“ I am listening.” 

Agenor narrated the disaster, the destruction of 
the army, the capture of the constable, and how 
he had been, almost miraculously, saved by the 
Black Prince.” 

“ I must redeem Bertrand,” said Charles V., 
“ if, however, they will allow him to be ransemed.” 

“ Sire, the ransom is agreed upon.” 

“ At how much ?” 

“ At seventy thousand gold florins.” 

“ And who has fixed this ransom?” said the 
king, shuddering at the amount of the figure. 

“ The constable himself.” 

“The constable? He appears to me very 
generous.” 

“Do you think, sire, that he estimates himself 
at more than his value?” 

“If he had valued himself at his werih,” said 
the king, “ all the treasures of Christianity would 
not suffice to restore him to us.” 

But whilst rendering this justice to Bertram!, 
the king fell into a profound re very, of which 
Agenor could not mistake the meaning. 

“ Sire,” he said directly, “ let not your majesty 
be in trouble respecting the ransom of the con- 
stable. Sir Bertrand has dispatched me to his 
wife, Madame Tiphame Raguenel, who holds 
one hundred thousand crowns of his, and who 
will give them to purchase his ransom. 

“ Oh ! good chevalier,” said Charles, cheering up, 
“ he is as good a treasurer then as he is a soldier? 
I should not have supposed it. A hundred thou- 
sand crowns! Eh! why he is richer than 1 am. 
Let him lend me then these seventy thousand 
florins; I will soon return them to him. But do 
you really think he possesses them? — If he were 
not to find them?” 

“ Why, sire ?” 

“ Because Madame Tiphaine Raguenel is very 
jealous of the glory of her husband, and conducts 
herself yonder as a charitable and magnificent 
lady.” 

“Then, sire, in case she has no longer the 
money, the good constable has given me another 
commission.” 

“ Which?” 

“ To journey through Brittany, crying: — ‘The 
constable is a prisoner of the English. Pay his 
ransom, men of Brittany! and you, women of 
Brittany, spin.’ ” 

“ And,” said the king hastily, “ you shall take 
one of my banners with three of my men-at-arms, 
to raise the cry throughout all France! Bat, 


172 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON 


added Charles, do not this till the last extremity. 

If it is possible that we can repair here the mis- 
fortune of Navarrete — villainous name. The word 
Navarre always brings misfortune to whatever is 
French.” 

“ Impossible, sire, you will soon see, no doubt, 
the fugitive prince, Henry de Transtamara. The 
English will sound victory through al] the 
trumpets of Gascony; and, besides, the f)oor 
Bretons, wounded beggars, will return to their 
country, recounting to all their lamentable his- 
tory. ’ 

‘‘It’s true! Go then Mauleon; and if you again 

see the constable ” 

“ I shall see him again.” 

“ Tell him that nothing is lost, if he is restored 
to me.” 

“ Sire, I had another word to say to you from 
him.” 

“ What, then?” 

“ Tell the king, he whispered in my ear, that 
our project marches well; that from the heat of 
Spain many French rats have died, without having 
been able to make friends with the climate.” 

“ Brave Bertrand, he must have his laugh even at 
this cruel moment.” 

“ Still invincible, sire, as great in defeat as iD 
victory.” 

Agenor took leave of Charles V., who gave him 
three hundred livres, a magnificent gift, by the 
aid of which, Agenor purchased two good horses 
for fifty livres each. He gave ten livres to 
Musaron, who, all astonishment, buried them in 
his leather belt, and renewed his equipage Rue de 
la Draperie.^ Agenor also purchased Rite de la 
Ileaumerie o4b of those helmets of novel invention 
which closed with a spring, and made a present of 
it to the squire, whose head lent itself so easily to 
the blows of the Saracens. This useful and 
agreeable present improved the good appearance 
of Musaron, and gave him, in presence of his 
master, the gentle pride of a gentleman squire. 

They put themselves en route. France is so 
beautiful! It is so sweet to be young, strong, 
valiant, to love, to be loved, to have a hundred and 
fifty livres at the saddle bow, and to wear a head- 
piece quite new, that Mauleon inhaled in long 
draughts the pure air; and. Musaron bounded on 
his saddle and stooped in the manner of a gend- 
arme, and as if they would say, the one — “look 
at me, I love the prettiest girl in Spain;” the 
other — “I have seen the Moors, the battle of 
Navarrete, and I have a helmet of eight livres, 
purchased at Poinerot’s, Rue de la Heaumerie.” 

In this joy, in their handsome equipage, Agenor 
arrived at the frontiers of Brittany, where he 
demanded of the Duke Jean de Montfort, the 
reigning prince, permission to accomplish in his 
domains the visit to Dame Raguenel, and the 
raising of money necessary for the constable’s 
ransom. 

The commission of Musaron, Agenor’s usual 
negotiator, was delicate. 

The Count Montfort, son of the old Count de 
Montfort, who had made war against France 
with the Duke of Lancaster, had preserved some 
rancour against Bertrand, the principal cause of 
the raising of the Siege of Dinan; but, as we have 
observed, it was the time of good hearts and 
noble actions. The young Count de Montfort, 
learning the misfortune of Bertrand, forgot all 
enmity. 

“ Will I permit it?” he said; “ why I demand 
it; on the contrary, let them raise on my domains 
any contribution they like. Not only would I see 


him free, but I would see him my friend, if he re 
turns to Brittany; our land is honoured in having 
given him birth.” 

Having thus spoken, the count received Agenor 
with distinction, gave him the present due to every 
ambassador royal, and having honoured him with an 
escort, had him conducted to Madame Tiphaine 
Raguenel, who inhabited at Roche d’Airien one 
of the family mansions. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Madame Tiphaine Raguenel. 

Tiphaine Raguenel, daughter of Robert Ra- 
guenel, Lord of Belliere, viscount, and a man of 
the first quality, was. one of those accomplished 
women, such as heroes no longer meet with, 
either because God does not unite in the same 
family all’ his precious gifts, or that the merit of 
one of the couple usually absorbs that of the 
other. Tiphaine Raguenel, in her youth, was 
surnamed, by the Bretons, Tiphaine the Fairy. 
She was learned in medicine and astrology; it was 
she who, in two celebrated combats of Bertrand, 
had predicted victory to him, to the great astonish- 
ment of the wondering Bretons; she who, when Ber- 
trand was wearied with service, and had resolved 
to return to his home, threw him back by her 
counsels and predictions into the glorious path 
from whence he retired fortunate, and with im- 
perishable renown. In fact, up to the w ar made 
by Charles de Blois against Jean de Montfort, a 
war in which Bertrand was called to the com- 
mand of the army, the hero of Brittany had 
only occasion to display his forces, address, and 
the courage, above all proof, of the champion, 
duelist, and chief of partisans. Thus Tiphaine 
Raguenel enjoyed, in the estimation of her hus- 
band and in the whole country, an influence equal 
to that of a great queen. She had been handsome, 
she was of high lineage. Her cultivated mind 
gave her the superiority over many of the 
prud'hommes of the council, and she had added to 
these precious qualities, a disinterestedness with- 
out example for her husband. When, she learnt 
that a messenger from Bertrand had arrived, she 
went out to meet him with her maidens and 
pages. Anxiety was painted on her countenance, 
she had, as if involuntarily, dressed herself in the 
habits of mourning, which, in the present state of 
circumstances, for they were generally ignorant 
of the disaster of Navarrete, had struck with a 
superstitious terror the household and serfs of the 
manor of Roche dAinen. Tiphaine then came 
to meet Mauleon, and received him at the draw- 
bridge. 

Mauleon had forgotten all his gaiety to assume 
the ceremonious countenance of a messenger of 
mournful augury. He first bowed, and then 
placed one knee on the ground, subjugated by 
the imposing exterior of the noble dame more 
than by the gravity of the news which he was the 
bearer of. 

“ Speak, sir knight,” said Tiphaine, “ I. know 
that you bring me very bad news of my husband, 
speak !” 

There was a mournful silence round the cheva- 
lier, and on the many features of the Bretons was 
painted the most intense anxiety. It was re- 
marked, however, that the chevalier’ had attached 
no crape to his banner or to his sword, as was 
usual in case of death. Agenor collected his 
spirits and commenced the mournful recital, which 
the lady listened to, without showing the least 


THE IRON HAND: OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULFON 


173 


sign of astonishment. Yet the shade that ob- 
scured her features invaded more thickly and 
more painfully her noble countenance. The 
Lady Tjphaine Raguenel listened, we say, to the 
mournful recital. 

“Well!” she said, when the ( amazed Bretons 
had uttered their cries of distress, and repeated 
their prayers, “ you come on the part of my hus- 
band, sir knight?” 

“Yes, lady,” replied Mauleon, 

“And a prisoner in Castile, he will be placed 
at ransom?” 

n He has placed a ransom on himself.” 

“At how much?” 

“ At seventy thousand golden florins.” 

“ It is not exaggerated, for so great a captain. 
But this sum — where does he reckon upon obtain- 
ing it?” 

“He awaits it from you, madame.” 

“ From me?” 

“Yes, have you not a hundred thousand gold 
crowns, which the constable brought from the 
last expedition, and confided as a depot to the 
holy monks of Mount Saint Michel.” 

“It’s true, the sum was a hundred thousand 
livres, sir messenger; but it is dissipated.” 

“Dissipated!” involuntarily exclaimed Mauleon, 
remembering the words of the king;— “dissi- 
pated! ” 

“As it was agreed it should be, I think,” con- 
tinued the lady ; “ I have taken the sum from the 
holy monks to equip a hundred and twenty men- 
at-arms, to assist twelve knights of our country 
to bring up nine orphans ; and a-s there remained 
to me nothing to marry two daughters of one of 
our friends and neighbours, I have pledged my 
late and jewels — there is nothing in the house 
ut strict necessaries. However, straitened as we 
are, I trust I have conducted myself to the satis- 
faction of Messire Bertrand; and I think he would 
approve of it, and thank me, if he were here.” 

These words, if he were here , pronounced with 
tenderness by this noble mouth, in such noble 
language, drew tears from every eye. 

“ It only remains for the constable to thank 
youj madame, indeed, as you merit, and to wait for 
assistance from God!” 

“And his friends!” said some, in their en- 
thusiasm. 

“ And as I have the honour of being the faith- 
ful serviteur of Messire the Constable,” said 
Mauleon, “ I shall accomplish the task imposed 
upon me by Messire Duguesclin, in the event of 
its happening as it does. I have the king’s trum- 
peter, a banner with the arms of France, and I 
shall traverse the country in announcing the 
news. Those who would see the constable safe 
and free, will rise and contribute.” 

“ I would have done it myself,” said Tiphaine 
Raguenel; “Lut it is better that you should do it, 
with the permission of Monseigneur the Duke of 
Brittany first obtained.” 

“ I have this permission, madame.” 

“ Now, dear sirs,’ continued Tiphaine Raguenel, 
steadily regarding the increasing crowd, “ you 
hear, those who would show to the chevalier here 
the interest they bear to the name of Duguesclin, 
will readily look upon his messenger as a friend.” 

“ And first of all,” cried the voice of a cavalier, 
who had stopped behind the group, “ I, Robert, 
Count de Laval, will give forty thousand livres 
for the ransom of my friend. Bertrand. This 
money follows me, my pages bring it.” 

“May the nobles of Brittany imitate you, 
generous friend, in the proportion of their riches, 


and the constable will be free to night,” said 
Tiphaine Raguenel, tenderly moved at this 
liberality. 

“ Come, sir knight,” said the Count de Laval to 
Mauleon, “I offer you the, hospitality of my house 
— you shall commence yoilr collection from to day, 
and, on my faith, it shall be ample.' Let us lea v e 
Dame Tiphaine to her grief.” 

Mauleon respectfully kissed the hand of the 
noble lady, and followed the count in the midst of 
the benedictions of a great concourse of people, 
attracted by the news. 

Musaron experienced no joy. He had been 
nearly stifled by the populace, who pressed upon his 
legs and kissed his stirrup, neither more nor less 
than if he had been a knight banneret. 

The hospitality of the Count de Laval promised 
a few happy day’s to the most sober and most 
vigilant squire, and, besides, Musaron, it must be 
confessed, had the weakness of relishing the sight, 
were it only for its colour of a large quantity of 
gold. 

Already had the collection from one corporation 
to another increased the mass. The humble 
cottage gave a day’s work, the chateau gave the 
price of two beasts, or a hundred livres ; the bourgeois, 
not less generous, not less national, retrenched a 
plate from his table, an ornament from the 
petticoatag!@ji||his wife. 

Agenor, in a week, collected in Rennes, a hundred 
and sixty thousand livres ; and the ray exhausted, he 
resolved to commence the exploitation in another 
vein. 

Moreover, it is certain, as the legend says, that 
th* women of Brittany spun more actively their 
distaff for the liberation of Duguesclin, than they 
dhl to support their sons and dress their husbands. 


CHAPTER NLIX. 

THE MESSENGER. 

A week had elapsed in which Mauleon had re- 
sided at Rennes with the Count de Laval, when 
one evening, at the moment he was returning 
loaded with a bag of gold, duly registered by the 
ducal scribe and the agent of the Lady Tiphaine 
Raguenel, the worthy knight, finding himself be- 
tween the town and the chateau, in a ravine bor- 
dered by hedges, observed two men of a strange 
aspect, and menacing attitude. 

“ Who are these men?” demanded Agenor of 
his squire. 

“On my soul, they look like men of Castile!” 
exclaimed Musaron, regarding sideways a cavalier 
followed by a page, each of w nom was mounted on 
a small Andalusian horse, all mane; and with 
helmets on their heads, and bucklers on their bosoms, 
had backed their horses against the hedge, to inter- 
cept the F renchmen and question them on their way. 

“ Indeed, ’tis the armour of. a Spaniard, and the 
long swords, sharp and flat, bespeak the Castilian.” 

“ Does it not cause you a certain effect, sir ? * 
said Musaron, 

“ Yes, certainly ; but this cavalier would speak 
to me, I think.’’ 

“ They will take your bag, seigneur. Luckily, 
I have my arbalete.” 

“ Leave your arbalete in peace ; see, neither 
one nor the other has touched his arifis.” 

“ Senor!” cried the stranger, in Spanish. 

“Is it to me you speak?” said Agenor, in the 
same language. 

“ Yes!” 

“What do you want with me?” 


174 


THE IRON HANT>: OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ Point out to me the road to the chateau of 

Raval, if you please,” said the stranger, with that 
politeness which distinguishes the man of condi- 
tion every where, but the plain Castilian any 
where. 

« X am going there, senor*” said Agenor, “ and 
X can serve you as a guide; but I apprize you 
that the lord of the chateau is absent; he went 
this morning for an excursion in the neigh- 
bourhood.” 

“Is there no one at the chateau? said the 
stranger, evidently disappointed. “ What! again 
seek!” he murmured. 

But I did not say there was no one in it, 
senor.” 

“Perhaps you suspect something, said the 
stranger, raising the vizor of his helmet; for his 
vizor, as also that of Mauleon, was lowered, a 
prudent habit adopted by all. travellers, who, in 
these times of mistrust and brigandage, always 
feared attack and treason. 

But scarcely had the Castilian allowed his fea- 
tures to be seen, than Musaron exclaimed:— “ Oh! 
Jesus !’’ 

“ What’s the matter?” said Agenor, surprised. 

« Gildaz!” murmured Musaron in the ear of his 
master. 

“Who is Gildaz?” demanded Mauleon, in the 
same tdfce. Mb . 

“ The man we encountered while travelling, and 
who accompanied Madame Maria; tlwxon of that 
good old gipsy woman who gave you the rendez- 
vous in the chapel.” 

“ Merciful heaven!” said Agenor, seized with 
alarm, “ what are they come here for ?” 

“ To pursue us, perhaps.” 

“ Prudence.” 

“ Ah ! you know there is no necessity to recom- 
mend that to me.” 

During this colloquy, the Castilian examined 
the two speakers, drawing back by degrees from 
fear. 

“Bah! what can Spain harm us in the middle 
of France?” said Agenor, assured, after a mo- 
ment’s reflection. 

“ Au fait, merely some news,” said Musaron. 

“Oh! ’tis this that makes me shudder. I have 
more fear of events than of men. No matter, we 
will question them.” 

“Let us be prudent, however; suppose they are 
emissaries of Mothril?” 

“ But you remember having seen this man with 
Maria Padilla.” 

“ Have you not seen Mothril with Don Fre- 
derick?” 

“ It’s true.” 

“Let us be on our guard,” said Musaron, bring- 
ing forward his arbalete, which was slung at his 
shoulder belt. 

The Castilian saw the movement. “ What do 
you mistrust?” he said: “we are not enemies. 
Have we presented ourselves discourteously— or 
is it the sight of my visage that has displeased 
you?” 

“No,” said Ag4nor, stammering, “but— -what 
are you gGing to do at the chateau of the Sire de 
Laval?” 

« I will readily explain to you, senor. I wish 
to meet with a knight who resides with the 
count.” 

Musaron, through the hr,les of his vizor, shot 
forth a speaking regard to his master. 

“ A knight — who is named ” 

“ Oh ! senor, do not demand of me an indiscre- 
tion in exchange for the service you render me; I 


would prefer waiting for some other traveller to 
pass, who may be leoa curious.’’ 

“ It’s true, senor, it’s true. I will question you 
no further.” 

“ I had conceived a great hope, on hearing you 
reply in the language A my country.” 

“ What hope?” 

“ That of a prompt buccess to my mission.” 

“ With this knight.” 

“Yes, senor.” 

“ What harm will it do you to name him, since 
I shall know his name when we arrive at the 
chateau?” 

“ I shall, then, senor, be under the roof of 
a seigneur who will not allow me to be ill- 
treated.” 

Musaron had a happy inspiration. He was 
always brave when he supposed a danger 
threatened his master. He resolutely lifted his 
vizor, and approached the Castilian. 

“ Vulgame Dios /” exclaimed the latter. 

“ Well, Gildaz, good day,” he said. 

“You are the man I seek!” exclaimed the Cas- 
tilian. 

“ And here I am,” said Musaron, unsheathing 
his heavy cutlass. 

“It concerns much of that,” said Gildaz; “is 
this seigneur your master?” 

“ What seigneur, and what master?” 

“ This knight — is he Don Agenor de Mauleon?” 

“ I am,” said Agenor. “ Well, finish my des- 
tiny — I am in haste to know the good or bad.” 
Gildaz immediately regarded the knight with a 
sort of defiance. “But if you deceive me?” lie 
said. Agenor made a sudden movement. 

“Listen, then,” said the Castilian, “A good 
messenger should fear.” 

“ You recognize my squire, dr ole /” 

“ Yes, but! do not know the master.” 

* You mistrust me, then, knave?” cried Musa- 
ron, furious,— “ Take care, yellow face, or I shall 
correct you! my knife is sharp.” 

“Eh!” said the Castilian, “my rapier also. 
You are not reasonable. .With my death my 
commission would be finished; and you killed, it 
would be still more so. Let us go, if you please, 
quietly, to the manor of Laval; and there, let 
some one, without being forewarned, name before me 
the Seigneur de Mauleon, and I will thereupon 
accomplish the order of my mistress.” 

This word made Agenor start: he exclaimed: — 
“ Good squire, you are right, we were wrong; 
you come to me y>n the part of Donna Maria, 
perhaps?” 

.“ You shall know it presently, if you are really 
Don Agenor de Mauleon,” said the obstinate 
Castilian. 

“ Come, then!” exclaimed the young man, with 
the fever of impatience; “come, the towers of 
the chateau are yonder, quick, quick ! You 'shall 
have every satisfaction, good squire. Spur, Mu- 
saron, let us spur!” 

“ Let me pass first, then,” said Gilda*, “ I beg 
of you.” 

“As you like; go, but go quickly.” And the 
four cavaliers hastened the pace of their animals. 


CHAPTER L. 

THE TWO MESSAGES. 

Agenor had scarcely entered the gates of Laval, 
when the Castilian squire, who had lost neither a 
look nor a gesture, nor a word, heard the guardian 
of the tower say to him: — 


175 


THE IRON HANK: OR. THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


— rTi-tA*'" 1 ' r ' 

“ Welcome, Sire de Mauleon?” / ' 

These words, joined to the rega rd full of re- 
proach which Musaron addressed' tohim from time 
to time, sufficed to the messenger. “ May I say 
two words aside to your lordship?’’ he directly 
demanded of the young man. 

44 Will this court planted with trees suit you?’ 
enquired Agenor. 

“ Perfectly, senor.” 

44 You know,” continued Mauleon ; 44 that I do 
1 not distrust Musaron, who is rather a friend 
than a serviteur for me; as to your com- 
panion ” 

“ Seigneur, you see him, he is a young Moor 
whom I found about two months ago in the road 
that leads from Burgos to Soria. He was dying 
of hunger; he had been beaten nearly to death by 
the people of Mothril and by Mothril himself, who 
had threatened him with a poignard for the 
leaning he seemed to have for the religion of 
Christ. I found him, then, all pale and bloody, 

I took him to my mother, whom, perhaps, your 
lordship may know,” added the squire, smiling, 

44 and we dressed his wounds and gave him to eat. 
Since then, he has been for us a dog devoted to 
the death. So when, a fortnight ago, my illus- 
trious mistress, Donna Maria ” The squire 

lowered his voice. 

“ Donna Maria!” murmured Mauleon. 

“Herself, senor; when my illustrious mistress, 
Donna Maria, sent for to confide to me a dange- 
rous and important mission — ‘ Gildaz,’ she said to 
me, 4 you must mount your horse and repair to 
France; put plenty of money in your valise , and 
take a good sword; you will find on the road to 
Paris a gentleman (and my mistress described 
your lordship) who certainly repairs to the court 
of the great King Charles the Wise; take with 
you a faithful companion, for the mission, I tell 
you, is dangerous.’ I immediately thought of 
Hafiz, and I said to him : - 4 Hafiz, mount your horse 
arid take your poignard.’ 4 Good, master,’ replied 
Hafiz> 4 the time only to go to the mosque.’ 
For with us Spaniards, you know, seigneur,” said 
Gildaz, sighing, “at present there are churches 
for the Christians, mosques for the infidels, as if 
God had two dwellings. I let the child run to his 
mosque. I prepared his horse myself with my 
own; I placed at the saddle bow the large 
poignard you see attached to it by the silk chain, 
and when he returned half an hour afterwards, we 
started. Donna Maria had written for you the 
letter which is here.” Gildaz raised his cuirass, 
opened his pourpoint, and said to Hafiz: — 44 Your 
poignard, Hafiz!’’ 

Hafiz, with his tawny coloured face, his white 
eyes, and the impassible stiffness of his manner, 
had, during the whole recital of Gildaz, main- 
tained a silence and the immobility of a statue. 
Whilst the good squire was enumerating his 
virtues, his fidelity, his discretion, he never 
winked ^ but when he spoke of his absence for half 
an hour to go to the mosque, a sort of redness, 
faint and sinister, overspread his cheeks, and 
threw into his eyes something like disquietude or 
remorse. When Gildaz asked him for his poig- 
nard, he slowly extended his hand, drew the 
weapon from its sheath, and presented it to Gildaz. 
The latter cut the lining of the pourpoint , and 
drew from it a letter in a silk envelop. 

Mauleon called Musaron to his aid. 

The latter had fully expected to figure in the 
scene. He took the envelop, tore it off, and 
commenced reading to Mauleon the contents of 
the epistle, whilst Gildaz and Hafiz kept them- 


selves at a respectful distance. 44 Seigneur Don 
Agenor,” said Maria Padilla, 44 1 am strictly 
watched, strictly spied, and well threatened ; but 
the person whom you know, is more so than my- 
self. I follow you very affectionately; but the 
person for whom I write to you, loves you still 
more than I do. We have imagined that it would 
be agreeable to you, now that you are on 
French ground, to have what you regret in your 
possession. Hold yourself ready at the frontier, 
then, at Rianzares, in a month from the reception 
of this advice. The precise date of your arrival 
at Rianzares I shall surely know by the faithful 
messenger I send you; wait there patiently with- 
out saying a word. One evening you will see 
approach, not a litter that is known to you, bu ; 
a swift mule, who will bring you the object of 
your desires; then. Seigneur Mauleon, fly; then, 
renounce the profession of arms, or, at least, 
never put foot again in Castile; this on your 
faith as a Christian and a knight. Then, rich 
with the dower your wife will bring you, happy 
in her love and beauty, guard as a vigilant seig- 
neur your treasure, and bless sometimes Donna 
Maria Padilla, a poor, unhappy woman, whose 
adieu you have herein.” 

Mauleon felt himself affected, transported, in- 
toxicated. He started, and snatching the letter 
from the hands of Musaron, he impressed on it aa 
ardent kiss. “Come,” said he to the squire, 
44 come that I may embrace you, you who have, 
perhaps, touched the garments of her who is my 
protecting angel.” And he madly embraced 
Gildaz. Hafiz did not lose sight of one of 
the details of this scene, but he did not 

move. “Say to Donna Maria ’’ exclaimed 

Mauleon. 

“ Silence, then ! seigneur,” interrupted Gildaz.; 
“this name — so loud!” 

“You are right,” said Agenor, in a lower tone; 
44 say, then, to Donna Maria, that in fifteen 
days ” 

“No, seigneur,” replied Gildaz; “the secrets of 
my mistress do not concern me; I am a courier, T 
am not a confidant.” 

* 4 You are a model of fidelity, of noble devoted - 
ness, Gildaz, and, poor as I am, you shall receive 
from me a handful of florins.” 

“ No, seigneur, nothing— my mistress pays 
liberal enough.” 

44 Then your page — your faithful Moor.” 

Hafiz opened his large eyes, and ihe sight of 
gold made a shudder pass over his shoulders. 

“ I forbid your receiving anything, Hafiz,” said 
Gildaz. 

An imperceptible movement revealed to the 
clear-sighted Musaron the furious constraint of 
Hafiz. 

44 The Moors are generally greedy,” he said to 
Gildaz, 44 and this one is more than a Moor and 
a Jew together. And he has launched at his 
comrade, Gildaz, a very villainous regard.” 

44 Bah ! all thje Moors are ugly, Musaron, and 
the devil alone knows some of their grimaces,” 
replied Gildaz, smiling. And he returned to 
Hafiz the poignard, which the latter grasped 
almost convulsively. 

Musaron, at a sign from his master, then pre- 
pared himself to write a reply to Donna Maria. 

The scribe of the Sieur Laval passed into the 
court; they stopped him. Musaron borrowed a 
parchment of him and a pen, and wrote: — “Noble 
dame, you overwhelm me with happiness. In a 
month, that is, on the seventh day of the ap* 
preaching month, I will be at Rianzares, ready to 


176 THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OF MATJLEON. 


receive the dear object you send me. I shall not j 
renounce the trade of arms, because I would 
become a great warrior to do honour to my be- | 
loved lady; but Spain will not again see me, I* 
swear it you by the Christ, unless you call me 
there, or misfortune should prevent A'issa from 
rejoining me; in which case, I would speed to the 
infernal regions to find her. Adieu, noble lady, 
pray lor me.” The chevalier made a cross at the 
bottom of the parchment, and Musaron wrote 
under the cross:— “This is the signature— Sire 
Agenor de Mauleon.” 

Whilst Gildaz secured beneath his cuirass 
Mauleon s letter, Hafiz, on horseback, watched, 
more like a tiger than a faithful dog, every move- 
ment of the squire. He noticed the place where 
the depot reposed, and from henceforth appeared 
indifferent to the rest of the scene, as if he had 
nothing more to see, and as if his eyes had 
become useless to him. < 

“ Now what are you going to do, good squire ?” 
said Agenor. 

“Heave on my indefatigable horse, seigneur; 

I must arrive in twelve days with my mistress, 
such is her order; I must, therefore, be diligent. 
It is true I am not very distant; there is, they 
say, a road that cuts through Poictiers.” 

“ Itls true. Au revoir , Gildaz! adieu, good 
Hafiz! By heaven! it shall not be said, that if 
you refuse the gratification of a master, you 
refuse the present of a friend/’ And Agenor 
unfastened the chain of gold, worth a hundred 
livres, and threw it round the neck of Gildaz. 

Hafiz smiled, and his swarthy face was strangely 
lit up with* this infernal smile. 

Gildaz, much astonished, accepted, kissed the 
hand of Agenor, and departed. Hafiz marched 
behind him, as though attracted by the brilliant 
gold that danced on the large shoulders of the 
squire, his master. 


CHAPTER LI. 

THE RETURN. 

Maueeon made his dispositions immediately. He 
now gave way to joy. Henceforth a union in- 
dissoluble with his mistress; security in love. 
Rich, handsome, loving, Aissa came to him as one 
of those dreams that the Almighty lends to men 
until morning, to make them comprehend that 
there is something besides a terrestrial life. 
Musaron shared the enthusiasm of his master. 
A large house to furnish in this rich country of 
Gascony, for example, where the soil gave suffi- 
cient nourishment to the idle, enriched the la- 
borious, and became a paradise for the rich; to 
command valets, serfs, to fatten beasts, dress 
> horses, arrange hunts — such were the sweet 
visions which assailed, in a crowd, the active ima- 
gination of the worthy squire of Agenor. Al- 
ready had Mauleon arranged, that he could not 
occupy himself with wars during a year, *for 
A'issa would entirely engross him, for he owed 
her, he owed himself, at least, a twelvemonth’s 
happiness, in return for so many painful hours. 
Mauleon waited with impatience the return of the 
Sire de Laval. This seigneur had harvested, 
amongst several noble Bretons, considerable sums, 
intended to pay the ransom of the constable. 
The scribes of the king and of the Duke of Brit- 
tany compared their accounts, from which it 
appeared that the moiety ot the seventy thousand 
gold florins were already found. This was enough for 
Agenor, he hoped that the King of France would 


give the rest, and sufficiently knew the Prince of 
Wales, to be assured that, in case the first moiety 
of the ransom arrived, the English would set the 
constable at liberty, if their policy did not counsel 
them to retain him, rnalgre the integral payment 
of the sum. But to acquit his punctilious con- 
science, Mauleon went through the remainder of 
Brittany with the royal standard, appealing to 
the people of Brittany. Every time he traversed 
a hamlet, preceded with the funereal cry : — “ The 
good constable is a prisoner of the English ; men 
of Brittany, will you leave him a captive ?* 
Every time, we say, he met in these circum- 
stances, the Bretons, so pious, so bold, so melan- 
choly, he heard the same groans, the same indig- 
nation, and the poor said to each other: — “ Quick, 
to work, let us eat less of our black bread, and 
amass a sou for the ransom of Messire Bertrand 
Duguesclin.” In this manner Agenor completed 
six thousand more florins, which he confided to 
the gendarmes of the Sire de Laval, or the 
vassals of the Lady Tiphaine Raguenel, to whom, 
before he departed, ; he returned to make his 
adieu. But now a scruple occurred to him. He 
might depart, he might receive his mistress ; but 
all was not finished for him in his mission as an 
ambassador. Agenor, who Had promised Donna 
Maria never again to enter Spain, must, neverthe- 
less, convey to Bertrand Duguesclin the money 
collected by his means in Brittany, precious 
money, for the arrival of which, no doubt, sighed 
the captive of the Prince of Wales. Agenor, 
placed between two duties, balanced for a long 
time. An oath, and he had made this oath to 
Donna Maria, was a sacred matter; his affection, 
his respect, for the constable, appeared to him 
also sacred. He mentioned these disquietudes to 
Musaron. 

“ Nothing more easy,” said the ingenious squire, 
“request from Dame Tiphaine Raguenel the escort 
of a dozen armed men to accompany the money; 
the Sire de Laval will readily add four lances; 
the King of France will give, provided it costs 
him nothing, a dozen men-at-arms; with this 
troop, which you will command as far as the 
frontier, the money will be in perfect safety. 
Once at Rianzares, you write to the Prince of 
Wales, who will send you a safe conduct; the 
money will thus pass safely to the constable.” 

“ But me — my absence?” 

“ The pretext of a vow .’ 5 

“ A lie!” 

“ ’Tis not a lie, since in fact, you have sworn to 
Donna Maria. Besides, were it a lie, the hap- 
piness is worth a sin.” 

“ Musaron!” 

“Eh! monsieur, don’t play the religious so; 
you marry a Saracen, that I think is really ft 
mortal sin.” 

“ It’s true,” sighed Mauleon. 

“ And then,” continued Musaron, “ the Seig- 
neur Constable will be very difficult, if he must 
have you with the money. But, believe me, I 
know men; the moment the florins shine, they 
will forget the collector. Besides, when once the 
constable is in France, if lie wishes to see you, 
he will see you; you will not bury yourself, I 
suppose.” 

Agenor did as usual, he yielded. Musaron, 
too, was right. The Sire de Laval furnished the 
men-at-arms; the Lady Tiphaine Raguenel armed 
twenty vassals; the Seneschal of theMainefuijpished 
twelve men-at-arms in the name of the king; and 
Agenor, taking with him one of the younger 
brothers of Duguesclin, departed, at long stages. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


177 


for the frontier, eager as he was to anticipate, by 
two or three days at least, the rendezvous fixed 
by Donna Maria <ie Padilia. The transport of 
the thirty-six thousand florins of gold, destined for 
the redemption of the constable, was a triumphal 
march. The few companions who remained in 
France, since the departure of the companies, were 
brigands, of very humble pretensions, and for 
whom the prey, very enticing no doubt, was not 
within reach. They preferred, therefore, on 
seeing it pass before their ranks, to utter chivalric 
acclamations, to bless the name of the glorious 
prisoner, and give themselves airs of respect, 
unable to be disrespectful without the chance of 
leaving ^heir bones on the field of battle. Mau- 
leon so skilfully directed his march, that he 
arrived, in fact, on the fourth day of the month 
at Rianzares, a small hamlet • destroyed many 
years since, but which, at that time, enjoyed 
. some renown, being a place of passage much 
5 frequented between France and Spain. 

CHAPTER LII. 

RIANZARES. 

Agenor chose in this hamlet, seated on the slope 
of a hill, a residence from whence he could easily 
discover the white and devious road which rose 
between two walls of pointed rock. The troop 
reposed, however, and they all needed it. Musaron 
had composed, in his handsomest style, an epistle 
to the constable, and another to the Prince of 
Wales, to advise both one and the other of the 
arrival of the gold florins. A man-at-arms, es- 
corted by a squire from Brittany, chosen from 
the vassals of Dame Tiphaine Raguenel, had been 
dispatched towards Burgos, where, it was said, 
the prince was staying at this moment, on account 
of the reports of war lately sprung up in the 
country. Every day Mauleon calculated, with 
the perfect knov$edge he had of the localities, the 
steps of Gildaz and Hafiz. According to his 
calculations, the two messengers ought to have 
crossed the frontier a fortnight since, at the least. 
In this fortnight they had had the time to see 
Donna Maria, and the la ter could have prepared 
the flight of Aissa. A good mule, makes twenty 
leagues in the day ; five or six days would suffice, 
then, for the fair Moresca to arrive at Rianzares. 
Musaron discreetly obtained some information as 
to the passage of the squire Gildaz. It did not 
seem possible, in fact, that the two men could have 
passed the defile of Rianzares, a spot easy, sure, 
and known. But the mountaineers replied that, 
at the period spoken of by Mauleon, they had 
only seen one cavalier pass, a Moor, young, and 
of a ferocious mien. 

“A Moor, young?” 

“Twenty, at the most,” replied the countryman. 

“ He was dressed in&red, perhaps?'’ 

“ With a Saracen morion: yes, seigneur.” 

“ Armed?” 

With a large poignard, hung at the bow of 
his saddle by a chain of silk.” 

“ And you say that he passed Rianzares alone?” 

“ Absolutely ajone.” 

“What did he say?” 

“ He found few words of Spanish, which he 
spoke badly, and quick, enquired if the passage 
through the rock was safe for horses, and if the 
little river at the base of the hill was fordable; 
and, upon our affirmations, he pushed his little 
black horse, and disappeared.” 

“ Alone! ’tis strange,” said Mauleon. i 

U 


“ Hum!” said Musaron, “alone — ’tis singular.” 

“ Gildaz must have determined to enter the fron- 
tier by another point, to avoid suspicions; what dc 
you think of it, Musaron? ’ 

“ I think that Hafiz had a very ugly coun- 
tenance.” 

“ What tells, besides,” replied Mauleon, pen- 
sive, “ that it was Hafiz who passed through 
Rianzares ” 

“ It is better»not to believe it, in fact,” 

“ And then, I have remarked,” added Mauleon, 
“ that the man all but arrived at the height of 
happiness distrusts everything, and sees in every- 
thing an obstacle.” 

“ Ah ! sir, you are close upon happiness indeed, 
and ’tis to-day, if we are not deceived, that Aissa 
should arrive. It will be right that during the 
whole night we keep a sharp look out in the neigh- 
bourhood of the river.” 

“ Yes, for I should not like our companions to 
see them arrive; I fear the effect of this flight on 
their somewhat narrow minds. A Christian in love 
with a Moorish girl, is enough to trouble the courage 
of the most intrepid; they would attribute to me all 
the misfortunes that have happened, as a punish- 
ment from God. But, despite myself, the Moor 
alone, dressed in red, having a poignard at hii 
saddle-bow— this resemblance to Hafiz preoccu- 
pies me.” 

“A few moments more, some few hours, some 
days at the farthest, and we shall know what to 
think of it,” replied the philosopher. “ Until then, 
monsieur, as we have no reason for being sad, let 
us live in joy, if you please.” 

This, indeed, was the best that Agenor could 
do; he lived in joy, and waited. But the first 
day, the seventh day of the month, passed, and 
nothing appeared on the route, except buyers and 
sellers of wool, and wounded soldiers, or chevaliers, 
having fled from Navarrete, and on foot, ruin d, 
making short stagi s through the woods, or long 
turns through the mountains, and thus regaining 
their native country after a thousand anguishes 
and a thousand privations. 

Agenor learnt from these poor men that in 
many places the war had already rekindled; that 
the tyranny of Don Fedro, lulled by that of 
Mothril, weighed insupportablv on the Castilians; 
that several emissaries of the pretendant, van- 
quished at Navarrete, traversed the villages, 
exciting prudent men against the abuse of the es- 
tablished power. These fugitives asserted that 
they had already seen several corps organized with 
the hope of a speedy return of Henry de Transta- 
mara. They added that a good number of their 
companions had seen the letters of this prince, in 
which he promised to return soon with an army 
levied in France. All these reports of war in- 
flamed the belligerent spirit of Agenor, and as 
Aissa did not arrive, love could not calm in him 
the fever that burns in young men at the clash of arms. 

Musaron began to despair; he knit his brow 
oftener than was usual with him, and returned very 
bitterly to his suspicions of Hafiz, to whom he 
obstinately attributed, as to a malicious demon, the 
delay of Aissa, to say no more, he added, when 
his ill-humour was at his height. 

As to Mauleon, like the body that seeks its soul, 
he wandered incessantly on the road, of which, his 
eyes, familiarised with all its sinuosities, knew 
every bush, every stone, every shade, and he could 
predict the step of a mule at two leagues distance. 

Aissa did not arrive; nothing came from Spain; 
but, on the contrary, there arrived from France, 
at intervals as regular as the pendulum of a clock 



178 


TUB IRON TTAN1> : OR. THE KNTGTTT OB MAULEON. 


troops of armed men, who took up their position 
in the environs, and appeared to wait for a signal 
to enter simultaneously. The chiefs of these 
different troops turned out upon the arrival of each 
fresh troop, exchanged in a few minutes a pass- 
word and some instructions, which appeared to 
them satisfactory, for, without further precaution, 
men of all arms and of all countries traded to- 
gether, and lived in perfect harmony. 

The day on which Mauleon, less occupied than 
A'issa, resolved to hear more of these arrivals of 
men and horses, he learnt that these different 
troops awaited a distir gmshed chief and fresh 
reinforcements to re-enter Spain. 

“And the name of the chief?” he enquired. 

“ We are ignorant of it; he will inform us him- 
self.” 

“ So all are going to enter Spain but myself!’’ 
exclaimed Agenor, in despair. “Oh! my oath — 
my oath!” 

“ Eh ! monsieur,” replied Musaron, “ grief drives 
away your senses. There is no longer an oath if 
Donna A’issa does not arrive; she arrives not, let 
us push forward.” 

“ It is not yet time, Musaron ; hope remains to 
mo. I have still some hope; I shall always have 
it, for I shall always love.” 

“ I would gladly have half-an-hour’s conversa- 
tion with that little tawny, Hafiz,” grumbled 
Musaron. “ I would merely look at him but face 
to face.” 

“ Eh ! what could Hafiz do against the all- 
powerful will of Donna Maria? ’Tis her we must 
accuse, Musaron her, or else my ill-luck.” 

Another week passed and nothing arrived from 
Spain. Agenor nearly became mad with impa- 
tience, and Musaron with rage. At the end of 
this week there were five thousand armed men 
spread over the frontier. Carts, loaded with pro- 
visions, some loaded with money, they said accom- 
panied these imposing forces. 

The men of the Sire de Laval, the Bretons of 
Tiphaine Raguenel, also waited impatiently for the 
return of their messenger, to know if the Prince of 
Wales consented to liberate the constable. At 
length the messenger returned, and Agenor ran 
with eagerness to the river to meet him. 

The man-at-arms had seen the constable — had 
embraced him — had been feasted by the English 
prince, and had received from the Princess of 
Wales a magnificent present This princess had 
condescended to tell him that she awaited the brave 
Chevalier de Mauleon to recompense his devoted- 
ness, and that virtue honoured every man, what- 
ever nation he belonged to. The messenger added, 
that the prince had accepted the thirty-six thou- 
sand florins on account, and that the princess, 
seeing him hesitate a moment, had said : — Sire 
my husband, I wish the good constable to be 
liberated through me. who admire him as much 
as his compal riots. We are almost Bretons, we 
are of Great Britain; I shall pay thirty thousand 
florins for the ransom of Messire Bertrand.” 

It resulted that the constable would be free, if 
he were not already so before the payment. This 
news made every Breton bound with joy who es- 
corted the ransom, and as joy is more communica- 
tive than grief, all the troops assembled near 
Rianzares had, on learning the result of the em- 
bassy, uttered an hurrah of joy, at which the old 
mountains had trembled even to their roots of 
granite. 

“Let us enter Spain,” the Bretons cried, “and 
bring back our constable!” 

“ it must be so,” said Musaron quietly to 


Agenor. “No A’issa; no oath; time flies, let ua 
march, monsieur.” 

And Mauleon, yielding to his anxious disquie- 
tude, replied: — “ Let us march!” 

The little troop, accompanied by the vows and 
benedictions of all, crossed the defile, nine days 
after f he day fixed by Maria Padilla for the arri- 
val of the young Moorish girl. 

“ We shall, perhaps, meet her on our road,” said 
Musaron, in order to induce his master to decide. 

As for ourselves, preceding them to the court of 
Don Pedro, we shall probably discover and inform 
the reader of the cause of this delay of bad 
augury. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

GILDAZ. 

Donna Maria was on her terrace, counting the 
days and the hours, for she expected for herself 
and for A'issa, or rather she felt some mis- 
fortune in the persevering calmness of the Moor. 

Mothril was not a man thus to sleep; never had 
he so dissembled his thirst for vengeance, which 
nothing had announced to his enemies for a whole 
fortnight. Entirely occupied with giving fetes to 
the king, with bringing gold to the coffers of Don 
Pedro, quite ready to effect the entrance of 
the auxiliary Saracens into Spain, and at length 
to unite the two promised crowns on the brow of 
his master, such were his apparent occupa- 
tions. He neglected A’issa, he saw her but 
once every evening, and generally accompanied 
by Don Pedro, who sent to the young girl the 
rarest and most magnificent presents. 

A'issa, prejudiced at first by her love for Mau- 
leon, and then by her friendship for Doi*ua Maria, 
accepted the presents, free to despise them when 
once received; and showing the same coldness 
towards Don Pedro, without suspecting that she 
thus irritated an ardent desire, she found for this 
loyal conduct an acknowledgments* the regard of 
Maria when she met her. 

Donna Maria told her also by a similar regard: 
— “ Hope! the plan we have arranged ripens every 
day in its shade; my messenger will return, and 
will bring you both the love of your handsome 
knight and the liberty, without which, there is no 
real love. ” At lengtJ the day that Donna 
Maria so ardently desir d shone for her. It was 
one of those mornings that burst forth in the 
summer under the spl mdid skies of Spain ; the 
dew trembled on eveiy leaf upon the flowery 
terraces of A'issa, whe i Donna Maria saw enter 
her chamber the old v/oman with whom we are 
acquainted. 

“ Senora!” she said, with a long sigh; “senora!” 

“Well! what is it? * 

“ Senora, Hafiz is there.’’ 

“Hafiz! who is Hafiz?” 

“The companion of Gildaz, senora.” 

“ What! Hafiz, and no Gildaz?” 

“Hafiz and no Gildaz, yes, senora.” 

“ My God ! let him enter. Do you know any 
more ? ” 

“ No ! Hafiz has told me nothing, nothing; and 
I weep, you see, senora, because the silence of 
Hafiz is more cruel than all the sinister words of 
the other.” 

“ Come, console yourself,” said Donna Maria, 
trembling; “console yourself, ’tis nothing, a delay, 
no doubt, and that’s all.” 

“ Then why did not Hafiz a 1 so delay.” 

“ On the contrary, look you, ’tis this tnat re- 


THE IRON HAND: OR. THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


179 


assures me, the return of Hafiz; certainly, Gildaz 
would not have kept him with him knowing me 
uneasy; he sends him, therefore, the news is 
good.” 

The nurse was not easily consoled; besides, 
there was but little truth in the consolations too 
hastily offered by her mistress. 

Hafiz entered. He was calm and humble as usual. 
His eye showed respect, like the eye of tigers and 
cats, which, dilated in the presence of those they 
fear, contract and half close themselves when 
they regard with anger or a dominating will. 
“What, alone?” said Maria Padilla. 

“ Alone, yes, madame,” timidly replied Hafiz. 
“And Gildaz?” 

“ Gildaz, mistress,” replied the Saracen, looking 
round him; “ Gildaz is dead.” 

“Dead!” exclaimed Maria Padilla, who joined 
her two hands in anguish; “ dead! poor fellow! is 
it possible?” 

“ Madame, he was attacked with fever on his 
road.” 

“ He, so robust?” 

“ Robust, indeed; but the will of God is more 
powerful than that of man,” sententiously re- 
plied Hafiz. 

“ A fever, oh ! and why did he not apprize me of 
it?” 

“Madame,” said Hafiz, “we were both travel- 
ling in Gascony, in a defile, we were attacked by 
the mountaineers, whom the SPund of gold had 
attracted.” 

“ The sound of gold? how imprudent!” 

“ The French monsieur had given us some 
gold, he was so joyful! Gildaz thought himself 
alone in these mountains, alone with me, and he 
took the caprice of reckoning our treasure; he 
was then suddenly hit by an arrow, and we saw 
approach several armed men. Gildaz was brave, 
we defended ourselves.” 

“My God!” 

“As we were yielding, for Gildaz was wounded, 
his blood flowed.” 

“Poor Gildaz! and you?” 

“Me also, mistress,” said Hafiz, drawing back 
his wide sleeve, which showed his naked arm 
furrowed by the blade of a poignard; as we were 
wounded, they took our gold, and the robbers fled 
immediately.” 

“ What next, my God, what next?” 

“ Afterwards, mistress, Gildaz was seized with 
fever, and he felt himself near death.” 

“ Did he say nothing to you?” 

“Yes, mistress, when his eyes became heavy, 
‘listen,’ he said to me, ‘you will escape; be as 
faithful as I have been; hasten to our mistress, and 
deliver into her hands the deposit confided to me 
by the French maitre.’ Here is the deposit.” 
Hafiz drew from his bosom an envelop of silk, 
completely perforated by a poignard, and stained 
with blood. 

Donna Maria, shuddering, touched the satin 
with horror, and examining it:— “ This letter has 
been opened,” she said. 

“Opened!” said the Saracen, staring with 
astonishment. 

“ Ye$, the seal is broken.” 

“ I know not,” said Hafiz.” 

“You have opened it yourself?” 

“ Me! I cannot read, mistress.” 

“Someone, then?” 

“ No, mistress, notice well, see, in the place of 
the seal this opening, the arrow of the moun- 
taineer has pierced the wax and the parch- 
ment.” 


“It’s true! it’s true!” said Donna Maria, still 
suspicious. 

“ And the blood of Gildaz is round the cuts, 
mistress.” 

“It’s true! poor Gildaz.” And the young 
woman, fixing a last regard on the Saracen, 
found so caim, so stupid, so perfectly still this 
youthful physiognomy, that she could not retain a 
suspicion. “Recount me the end, Hafiz. ’ 

“The end, mistress, is that Gildaz had scarcely 
handed me the letter, when he expired; I imme- 
diately resumed my course as he had told me, 
and poor, hungry, but still journeying, I am come 
to bring you the message.” 

“Ofi! you shall be well rewarded, Aiild,” said 
Donna Maria, affected even to tears; “yes, you 
shall not quit me, and if you are faithful — if you 
are intelligent ” 

A flash appeared on the features of the Moor, a 
flash that died away as quickly as it appeared. 

Maria then read the letter we have seen, com- 
pared the dates, and yielding herself to the 
natural impetuosity of her character, “Come!” 
she said to herself, “ come to the work !” She 
gave the Saracen a handful of gold, saying to him : 
— “Repose yourself, good Hafiz; and in a few 
days hold yourself ready, I shall want you.” 

The young man departed, radiant; he touched 
the threshold, bearing off his joy and his gold, 
when the groans of the nurse burst forth loudly. 
She had just learnt the fatal news. 

CHAPTER LIV. 

OF THE MISSION OF HAFIZ, AND HOW HE FUL- 
FILLED IT. 

On the eve of the day on which Hafiz had brought 
to Donna Maria the letter from France, a shep- 
herd presented himself at the gates of the 
town, and had demanded to speak with the 
Seigneur Mothril. 

Mothril, occupied in saying his prayers at the 
mosque, quitted every thing to follow this singular 
messenger, who could not announce a very high 
or very powerful ambassador. Mothril, scarcdy 
outside the gate with his guide, had perceived on 
the heath a little Andalusian horse browsing on 
the herbage, and, reclining on the thin grass in- 
termixed with the stones, the Saracen Hafiz, who 
was watching every one that issued from the 
town. 

The shepherd, paid by Mothril, had ran gaily 
to join his meager goats on the hillside. Mo- 
thril, forgetting all etiquette, had seated himself, 
he, the first minister, near the sombre child with 
the sullen face. 

“God be with you, Hafiz! you are returned, 
then?” 

“ Yes,. master, here I am.” 

“ And you have left your companion so far 

behind, that he suspects nothing? ** 

“ Very far, seigneur, and most assuredly he 
suspects nothing.” 

Mothril knew his messenger — he knew the 
necessity of euphemism common with all the 
Arabs, with whom it is a cardinal point to evade 
as long as possible pronouncing the word dead. 

“You have the letter?” he said. 

“Yes, seigneur.” 

“ How did you procure it?” 

“ If I had demanded it of Gildaz, he would have 
refused it; if I had attempted to take it by 
force, he would have beaten me, and no doubt 
killed me, being stronger than myself.” 


180 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ You made use of address?” 

“ I waited till he had arrived with me in the 
heart of the mountain, which serves as a frontier 
between France and Spain. The horses were 
very tired, Gildaz allowed them to repose; him- 
self fell asleep on the moss at the foot of a large 
rock. I chose this moment; I approached Gildaz 
by crawling and struck him in the breast with 
my poignard; he stretched out his arms, uttering 
a dull sound, and his hands were moistened with 
Wood; but he was not dead, 1 knew it well; he 
was enabled to draw his cutlass and strike me in 
the left arm; I pierced his heart with my point, he 
immediately expired. The letter was in his 
pourpoint I drew it ou*t. Journeying all night in 
the direction of the wind with my little horse, I 
abandoned the corpse and the other horse to the 
wolves and vultures; I cleared the frontier, and, 
without being disturbed, I finished my route. Here 
is the letter 1 promised you.” 

Mothril took the parchmeqt, the seal of which 
was quite perfect, but which, however, had been 
pierced through and through by the poignard of 
Hafiz on the heart of Gildaz. With an arrow he 
took from the quiver of a sentinel, he pierced the 
seal in such a manner, that the silk of the seal 
was broken, and he greedily read the contents. 
“Good!” he said; “we will all be at this rendez- 
vous;’ and he began to reflect. Hafiz waited. 

“ What shall I do, rriaitreV ’ 

“You shall remount your horse and take this 
letter; you will knock at sunrise* at the gates of 
Do^pa Maria. You will announce to her that the 
mountaineers attacked Gildaz, and wounded him 
with arrows and poignards; that in dying, he 
delivered you the letter. This will be all.” 

“ Good, master.” 

“Go, journey all night; that your garments in 
the morning may be moistened with the dew, your 
horse with sweat, as if you only arrived that 
morning; and, then, await my orders, and for 
a week approach not my house.” 

“Is the prophet satisfied with me?” 

“ Yes, Hafiz. ’ 

“ Thanks, master.” 

We now see how the letter had been unsealed; 
and the nature of the storm that was gathering 
over the head of Donna Maria. 

Mothril, however, did not confine himself to 
what he had done. He awaited the morning, and 
dressing himself in magnificent habits, he went 
to seek Don Pedro. The Moor, on entering the 
king’s apartment, found the prince seated in a 
large arm chair of velvet , and mechanically play- 
ing wfith the ears of a young wolf, which he loved 
to tame. On his left, in a similar chair, was seated 
Donna Maria, pale, and apparently irritated. In 
fact, since she had been there, so near Don 
Pedro, the prince, occupied, no doubt, with other 
thoughts, had not spoken a word to her. 

Mothril entered, and it was an opportunity for 
Maria Padilla to quit the room with a bounce. 

“You go, madame?” said Don Pedro, uneasy, 
despite himself, at this furious sortie, which he had 
provoked by the indolent reception given to his 
mistress. 

“ Yes, I go,” she said ; “ and I indulge that 
graciousness of w r hich you, no doubt, make a 
provision for the Saracen Mothril.” 

Mothril beard, but he did not appear irritated. 
If Donna Maria had been less furious, she would 
have discovered that the calmness of the Moor 
sprung from some secret assurance of an ap- 
proaching triumph; but anger does not calculate, 
it carries sufficient satisfaction with it; U is 


f really a passion. He who softens it, finds a 
pleasure in it. 

“ Sire,” said Mothril, affecting a profound grief; 
“ I see my king is not happy.” 

“ No!” replied Don Pedro, with a sigh 

“ We have much gold,” added Mothril; “Cor- 
dova has contributed.” 

“ So much the better,” said the king, negligently. 

“ Seville arras twelve thousand men,” continued 
Mothril; “ we gain two provinces.” 

“ Oh!” said the king, in the same tone. 

“If the usurper re-enters Spain, I hope, within 
a week from hence to confine him in some chateau 
— to take him.” 

Never had this name of usurper failed to excite 
in the king a violent tempest; on this occasion, 
Don Pedro contented himself by saying calmly: - 
“Let him come! you have gold, soldiers— we shall 
take him, we will have him tried, and take off his 
head.” 

Mothril at this moment approached the king:— 
“ Yes, my king is very unhappy,” he said again. 

“ And why, friend?” 

n|“ Because gold does not delight you; because 
power disgusts y ou ; because you see nothing sweet 
in vengeance; because, in fact, you no longer find 
for your mistress a smile of love.” 

“ Undoubtedly, I love her no longer, Mothril, 
and with this void in my heart, nothing now ap- 
pears desirable to me.” 

“ When the heart appears so empty, king, is it 
not full of desires? Desire, you know, is as the 
air enclosed in a bladder.” 

“ I know it yes, my heart is full of desitm. 

“ You love, then?” 

“ Yes, I think I love ” 

“ You love Aissa, the daughter of a powerful 
monarch. Ah! I pity you, and envy you at the 
same time, for you must be very happy or much 
to be pitied, seigneur.” 

“ It’s true, Mothril, I am much to be pitied.” 

“ She loves you not, you would say?” 

“ No, she does not love me.” 

“ Think you, seigneur, that the blood, pure as 
that of a goddess, is agitated with the passions to 
which another woman would yield? Aissa w'ould 
be of no value in the harem of a voluptuous prince; 
Aissa is a queen, she will smile but on a throne. 
There are flowers, you see, my king, which only 
blossom on the summit of the mountain.” 

“ A throne! I marry Aissa! Mothril, what would 
the Christians say?” 

“ What tells you, seigneur, that Aissa, loving 
you because you would be her husband, would not 
make you the sacrifice of her God, she who will 
have given you her soul?” 

A sigh, almost voluptuous, escaped fn m the 
bosom of the king: — “ She would love me?” 

“ She will love you.” 

“No, Mothril.” 

“ Well, seigneur, bury yourself in grief then, 
for you are not worthy of being happy ; for you 
despair before the time.” 

“ Aissa avoids me.” 

“ I thought the Christians more ingenious in 
divining a. woman’s heart. With us, the passions 
concentrate, and efface themselves, in appearance, 
under the heavy badge of slavery; but our women, 
so free to say all, and consequently to hide all, 
render us more clear-sighted to read in their 
hearts. How would you have the proud Aissa 
ostensibly love him who in his journies is accom- 
panied by a woman, the rival of all the women 
who would love Don Pedro?” 

44 Aissa is jealous ?” 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


181 


A smile from the Moor was his reply; he then 
added: — “ With us the turtle-dove is jealous of his 
companion, and the noble panther tears with teeth 
and claws the panther in presence of the tiger, 
whom either is come to choose.’’ 

“ Ah! Mothril, I love A'issa.” 

“ Marry her.” 

“ And Donna Maria?” 

“ The man who has caused the death of his 
wife that he might not displease his mistress, 
hesitates to dismiss his mispress, whom he loves 
no longer, to acquire five millions of sub- 
jects, and a love more precious than the entire 
world?” 

‘‘You are right; but it would be the death of 
Donna Maria.” 

The Moor again smiled. “ She loves you, then, 
still?” 

“ Does she love me! do you doubt it?” 

“ Yes, seigneur/' Don Pedro turned pale. “ He 
loves her still, 5 ’ thought Mothril; “let us not 
awaken his jealousy, for he would prefer her to all 
the rest.” “I doubt it,” he resumed, “ not because 
she is unfaithful to you, I do not believe so, but 
because seeing herself less loved, she persists in 
living with you.” 

“ I should have called this love. Mothril.” 

“ And I call this sentiment, ambition.” 

“ You would drive away Maria?” 

“ To obtain A'issa, yes.” 

“Oh! no — no!” 

“ Suffer, then.' 5 

“ I thought,” said Dun Pedro, fixing on 
Mothril a fiery regard, “that if you saw your 
king suffer, you would not have the courage to say 
to him, — ‘Suffer!’ I thought you would not have 
failed to cry to mb, - ‘ I will console you, mon- 
seigneur.’ ” 

“ At the expense of the honour of a great king 
of my country; no, rather death.” 

Don Pedro remained plunged in a sombre 
re very. ' “ I will die, then,” he said, “fori love 
this girl; or, indeed,” he exclaimed with a sinister 
flash, “ No, I will not die.’ 

Mo-thril well knew his king, and was satisfied 
that no barrier was strong enough to arrest the 
gush of passion in this untameable man. “ He 
will use violence,” he thought, “let us prevent 
this result.” “ Seigneur,’ said Mothril, “ A'issa has 
a noble soul, she will believe in an oath. If you 
will swear to marry her after having solemnly 
quitted Donna Maria, I think that A'issa would 
confide her destiny to your love.” 

“ Would you engage it?” 

“ I will engage it.” 

“Well,” exclaimed Don Pedro, “I will break 
with Donna Maria, I swear it.” 

“ 5 Tis a different affair, make your conditions, 
monseigneur.” . ^ 

“ I will break with Donfl^VIaria, and will leave 
her a million crowns. There shall not be, in the 
country she may choose for her residence, a prin- 
cess more riclPor more honoured.” 

“ Be it so, ; tis like a magnificent prince; but, in 
addition, this country must not be Spain.” 

“ Indeed?” 

“A'issa would not be assured unless the sea, 
the boundless sea, sepa’ated your old love from 
the new/ 

“We will place the sea between A’issa and 
Donna Maria, Mothril.’' 

“ Good, mon^eigneur.” 

“But I am king, you know that I accept condi- 
tions from no one.” 

“ ’Tis just, sire.” 


“ The bargain, then, a little like a bargain be- 
tween Jews, must be accomplished between our- 
selves, without, at first, engaging any other than 
yourself.” 

“ How so?” 

“ Donna A'issa must be delivered to me as an 
hostage.” 

“ Nothing less than that?” said Mothril, with 
irony. 

“Madman! See you not that love consumes 
me — devours me; that at this moment I enjoy 
delicacies that make me laugh? As if the lion 
had scruples in his hunger! See you not that if 
you bargain with me about A'issa, I shall take her; 
that if you roll about your irritated eyes I shall 
have you arrested and hung; and that every 
Christian knight will be present to behold your 
body on the gibbet, and to make their court to my 
new mistress?” 

“ ’Tis true,” thought Mothril. “ But Donna 
Maria, seigneur?” 

“ My love is hungry, I tell you, and Donna 
Maria shall see how Donna Bianca de Bourbon 
died.” 

“ Your anger is terrible, my master,” humbly 
replied Mothril; “he must be mad who will not 
bend thf knee before you.” 

“ You will deliver A'issa to me.” 

“If you command me, yes, seigneur; but if ... 
you have not followed my cuuxicils, if you have ; ’ 
not rid yourself of Donna Maria, if you have not 
discouraged her friends, who are your enemies, 
if you have not dispersed a'll the scruples of 
A'issa, remember, you will not possess this woman; 
she will kill herself.” 

It was now the king’s turn to tremble and to 
reflect. “ What would you have, then?” he said. 

“ 1 desire that you wait one week. Do not in- 
terrupt me! Then let Donna Maria show her 
temper. A'issa shall depart for a royal chateau, 
without any one knowing her flight or the. desti- 
nation of her journey: you will convince this 
young girl, she will become yours, and will love 
you.” 

“And Donna Maria? I tell you.” 

“Lulled at first, she will awaken vanquished. 

Leave her to groan and get into a passion, you 
will have exchanged a mistress for a lover. 

Maria will never pardon you this infidelity, she 
will herself rid you of her. 5 ’ 

“ Yes, she is proud, it’s true. And you think 
A'issa will come?” 

“I do not think it, I know it.” 

“ That day, Mothril, demand of me half my . 
kingdom, it is yours.” 

“You will never have more justly recompensed 
loyal services.” 

“ In a week, then?” 

“ At the last hour of the day, yes, rnonseigneur, 

A'issa shall leave the town, escorted by a Moor; 

I will conduct her to you.’ 5 

“ Go, Mothril.” 

“ Until then, raise not the suspicions of Donna 
Maria/ 5 

“ Fear nothing. I have well concealed my 
love - my grief; think you I will not hide my 
joy?” 

“ Announce, then, monseigneur, that you mean 
to depart for a country seat.” 

“ 1 will do it,” said the king. 


182 


THE IKON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


CHAPTER LY. 

HOW HAFIZ LED ASTRAY HIS TRAVELLING 
COMPANIONS. 

Donna Maria, however, had, since the return of 
Hafiz, renewed her correspondence with Aissa. 
The latter could not read, but the sight of the 
parchment, touched by the hand of h r lover, the 
cross especially, the representation of his loyal 
will, had loaded with joy the heart of the young 
girl, and twenty times did she impress upon it the 
kiss so fervently solicited. 

“ Dear Aissa,” said Maria, “ you shall depart. 
Tn a week you shall be far from hence; but you 
shall be near him you love, and I do not think 
you will regret this country.” 

“ Oh! no! no! no! my iife is to breathe the air 
he breathes.” 

“ Then you will be united. Hafiz is a prudent 
lad, and full of intelligence. He knows the road; 
besides, you will not fear this child as you would 
fear a man; and I am sure you will travel with 
more confidence in his company. He is of your 
own country, you both speak the language 
cherished by you. This casket contains all your 
jewels; remember that in France, a seigneur, 
although rich, does not possess the moiety of 
what you will bring to your lover. Besides, 
my favours will accompany the young man, should 
he go with you to the end of the world. Once in 
France, you have nothing more to fear. I medi- 
tate a great reform here. The king must drive 
from Spain the Moors, who are enemies of our 
religion, a pretext which the envious make use 
of to tarnish the glory of Don Pedro. You 
absent, I shall commence the work without hesi- 
tation.” 

“On what day shall I see Mauleon?” said 
Aissa, who had heard nothing but the name of 
her lover. . 

“You can be in his arms five days after your 
departure from the town.” 

“ I will take less time by half than the most 
rapid cavalier, madame.” 

It was after this conversation, that Donna 
Maria sent for Hafiz, and asked him if he would 
not return to France to accompany the sister of 
Gildaz: — “A poor child inconsolable for the 
death of her brother,” she added, “and who wishes 
to give a Christian burial to his remains.” 

“1 will gladly do so,” said Hafiz; “ fix me the 
day of departure, mistress.” 

“ To-morrow you shall mount a mule I will 
give you; the sister of Gildaz will also ride a 
mule; and another carrying my nurse, w T ho is her 
mother, and with a few effects relating to the 
ceremony she wishes to accomplish.” 

“ Good, senora. To-morrow I will depart. At 
what hour?” 

“In the evening, after the doors are closed and 
the lights extinguished.” 

Hafiz had no sooner received this order, than he 
transmitted it to Mothril. The Moor hastened to 
seek Don Pedro. “ Seigneur,” he said, “ this is 
the seventh day; you can depart for your country 
scat.” 

“ I waited,” replied the king. 

“ Depart, then, my king, it is time.” 

“ All the preparations are made,” added Don 
Pedro. “ I shall depart much the more wil- 
lingly that the Prince of Wales sends me to- 
morrow a herald-at-arms, to demand the money 
of me.” 

“Aud the treasury is empty to day, seigneur; 


for you know we hold in readiness the sum des- 
tined to quiet the fury of Donna Maria.” 

“ Good; ’tis sufficient.” Don Pedro ordered 
everything for the departure. He affected to in- 
vite to this journey several ladies of the court, 
but made no mention of Donna Maria. 

Mothril watched the effect of this insult on the 
proud Spaniard, but Donna Maria did not complain. 
She passed the day with her women in playing on 
the lute, and making her birds sing. The evening 
arrived; as all the court had left, and as Donna 
Maria gave out that she was unaccountably 
wearied, she ordered a mule to be prepared for 
her. 

At a signal given by Aissa, at liberty in her 
house, for Mothril had accompanied the king, 
Donna Maria descended, mounted her mule, after 
enveloping herself in a large cloak, such as 
duennas wore. In this dress, she went herself to 
seek Aissa by the secret passage, and, as she ex- } 
pected, she found Hafiz, who, in the saddle for the 
last hour, searched the darkness with his piercing 
eyes. Donna Maria showed to the guards her 
pass, and gave them the vrord. The doors were 
opened. A quarter of an hour afterwards, 
the mules were hastening rapidly towards the 
plain. 

Hafiz went first. Donna Maria remarked that he 
kept towards the left instead of continuing the 
straight road. “I cannot speak to him, for he will 
recognise my voice,” she said to her companion, • 
“but you, whom he will not recognise, enquire 
of him why he thus changes the route.” 

Aissa put the question in the Arab language 
and Hafiz, much surprised, replied to her: — 

“Because the left is much the shortest, se« 
nora.” 

“Very well,” said Aissa, “but do not go 
astray.” 

“Ah! no,” said the Saracen; “I know where I 
am.” 

“He is faithful, be tranquil,” said Maria; “bo- 
sides, I am with you, and I only accompany yon j 
for the purpose of freeing you in case a troop 
should stop you in the environs. By the morning >' 
you will have made fifteen leagues; no more 
soldiers to be feared. Mothril watches but in a 
circumscribed compass, by his indolence and the 
negligence of his master. 1 shall then quit you, 
and you will pursue your route; and I, traversing 
the whole route, shall knock at the gates of the* 
palace inhabited by the king; 1 know Don Pedro 
he weeps my absence, and wi 1 receive me with _J 
open arms.” 

“ This chateau, then, is near here?” said Aissa. 

“It is seven leagues from the town w r e have 
quitted, but much to the left; it is situated on a 
mountain which we should distinguish if the 
moon were to rise.” Suddenly the moon, as if it 
had obeyed the voi^e of Donna Maria, issued 
from a black cloud, tne edges of which it silvered. 
Immediately a soft and clear light shed itself over 
the fields and w r oods, so that Hie travellers 
suddenly found themselves envelop'd in a clear 
atmosphere. 

Hafiz turned towards his companions, he 
looked round him, the road had given place tc a 
vast heath, bounded by a high mountain oil 
which rose up a round and magnificent chateau. 

“The chateau?” exclaimed Donna Maria, “we 
have wandered!’ 

Hafiz trembled, he thought he recognised the 
voice. 

“You have missed your way?” said Aissa to 
the Moor. “ Answer!” 


THE- IKON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


183 


« Alas! is it true!” said Hafiz, innocently. He 
had scarcely finished, when, from the bottom 
of a ravine, bordered by green oak* and olive 
trees, rushed four cavaliprs, whose fiery hcrsea 
mounted the hill with open no*strils and floating 
manes. 

“ What means this?” murmured Maria sul- 
lenly — “Are we discovered?” and she enveloped 
herself in the folds of her mantle without adding 
a word. 

Hafiz commenced uttering piercing cries, as if 
in fear; but one of the cavaliers applied a hand- 
kerchief to his lips and led his mule. Two 
of the other ravishers spurred the mules of the 
two women, so that the animals started at a 
furious gallop towards the chateau. 

Aissa attempted to cry out — to defend herself. 

Be silent!” said Donna Maria to her; “with 
me you have nothing to fear in Don Pedro; with 
you, I fear nothing from Mothril. Be silent!” 

The four cavaliers, as though they were con- 
ducting a troop to the stable, directed their 
capture towards the chateau. 

“ It seems we were expected,” thought Donna 
Maria, “ the doors are opened without the 
trumpets sounding.” 

In fact, the four horses and the three mules 
entered with a grand noise in the court of the 
palace. A window was lighted up, a man was 
seen at this window; he uttered a cry of joy on 
seeing the mules arrive. 

“’Tis Don Pedro, and he was waiting!” mur- 
mured Donna Maria; who recognised the voice of 
the king; “what does all this signify?” 

The cavaliers ordered the women to dismount, 
and conducted them to the hall of the chateau. 
Donna Maria supported the trembling Aissa. 

Don Pedro entered the hall leaning on Mothril, 
whose eyes sparkled with joy. “Dear Aissa!” he 
said, hastening towards the young girl, who 
shuddered with indignation, and with an inflamed 
eye and agitated lip seemed to demand an 
account, of the treason from her companion. 
“Dear Aissa, pardon me,” repeated the king, “for 
having frightened you and this good woman; 
permit me to offer you a welcome.” 

“And me, then,” said Donna Maria, lifting the 
hood of her mantle; “you do not salute me, 
ieigneur?” 

Don Pedro uttered a loud cry and recoiled in 
fear. Mothril, pale and trembling, felt himself 
.propping under the crushing regard of his enemy. 
K “ Come! let us be shown into an apartment, our 
host,” continued Donna Maria, “ for you are our 
host, Don Pedro.” 

Don Pedro, tottering and thunderstruck, bent 
down his head and re-entered the gallery. 
Mothril fled- but with him fury had already 
replaced fear. 

The two women drew close to one another and 
w r aited in silence. A moment afterwards they 
hear.l the doors closed. 

The major-domo, bowing to the ground, came 
to request Donna Maria to ascend to her apart- 
ment. 

“ Do not quit me !” exclaimed Aissa. 

“Fear nothing, I tell yen my. child, see! I 
have shown myself, and my look sufficed to 
tame these ferocious beasts. Come, follow me; 

I watch over you, I tell you” 

“ And you — oh! fear also for yourself!” 

“Me!” said Maria Padilla, smiling with haugh- 
tiness; “ who w r ould dare, then? ’Tis not for me 
to have fear in this chateau.” 


CH APTER LYI. 

T^JSJ PATIO OF THE SUMMER PALACE. 

Thk apvvtmrnt into which they conducted Maria 
was well known to her; she inhabited it at the 
time of ter pew r er, of her prosperity. At that 
time the whole court knew the w-ay of the galle- 
ries with wooden pillars painted and gilded, of 
which a patio , or garden of orange trees, with a 
bason of marble, formed the centre. Then w’ere 
seen pages at the richly brocaded door screens, 
and valets eager to do the service under these 
sumptuously lighted galleries. In the patio be- 
low, under the thick foliage of the trees in flower, 
were hidden the Moorish symphonies, so soft, so 
sweetly sad, that they seemed, like slow perfumes, 
attracted to the sky when they ascend from the 
lips of the singer or the fingers of the musician. 
At the present moment all was silent. Separated 
from the rest of the palace, this gallery seemed 
morne and empty. The trees still possessed their 
foliage, but it was gloomy; the marble sent forth 
in waves the bleaching liquid, but with a noise 
like the groans of a raging sea. At the extremity 
of one of the long sides of this parallelogram, a 
small door, arched, led from the gallery of Maria 
to the gallery occupied by the king. This 
passage was long, narrow as a paved canal. For- 
merly Don Pedro ha i determined that it should 
always be hung with precious stuffs, and that the 
floor should be strewn with flowers; but in the long 
interval of his visits, the draperies became soiled 
and torn; the faded flowers cracked under the 
feet All tha, has assisted love, fades when love 
is dead. It is the same with those passionate 
roots that flourish and twine luxuriously around 
the tree they love, but which wither and drop 
inanimate when they can no longer inhale the 
juice and life of their ally. 

Donna Maria was scarcely installed in her 
apartment when she demanded her service. 

“ Senora,” replied the major domo, “ the king . 
did not come to remain, but simply to attend 
a hunting party. He has not brought a ser- 
vice.” 

“Good; the hospitality of the king, however, 
does not permit his guests to be in want of neces- 
saries here.” 

“ Senora, I am at your orders, and anything 
your highness may demand — ” 

“ Give us refreshments then, and a parchment 
to write.” 

The major-domo bowed and retired. 

The night had approached, the stars shone 
brightly in the firmament. At the very furthest 
extremity of the patio an owl uttered his plain- 
tive cry, which silenced the nightingale perched 
on the windows of Donna Maria. 

Aissa, in the obscurity, under the influence of 
these gloomy events, alarmed at the sullen fury of 
her companion, kept herself, trembling, at the 
lower end of the apartment. She now saw pa>s 
and repass, like a faint shadow, Donna Maria, her 
hand on her chin, her eye lost in wildness, but 
sparkling with projects. She dared not speak, 
fearing to disturb this anger, and to cause her 
grief to deviate. 

Suddenly the major-domo reappeared, carry- 
ing light®, widen he placed on a table. A slave 
followed him, charged with a silver gilt tray; 
on which two cups of chased silver accom- 
panied fruits, comfits, and a large jug of Xerea 
wine. 


184 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OP MAULEON.' 


“ Senora,” said the major-domo, “ your high- 
ness is served. ** 

“ I do not see the ink and the parchment that 1 
demanded,” said Donna Maria. 

“ Senora, I have searched a long while,” said 
the major-domo, embarrassed; “ but the chancellor 
of the king is not here, and the parchments are in 
the royal coffer. 

Donna Maria frowned. “ I understand,” she 
said ; “ very well, thanks, leave us.* 

The major-domo retired. 

“Thirst is consuming me,” said Donna Maria; 
“ dear child, will you help me to some drink?” 

Aissa quickly poured out some wine in one of 
the cups and offered it to her companion, who 
drank greedily. 

“ Has he not brought water?” she added; “this 
wine doubles my thirst instead of assuaging it. 

Aissa searched around, and perceived an earthen 
jar, with painted flowers, as there are in the east, 
to keep the water fresh even in the sun. She 
drew out a cup of pure water, into which Donna 
Maria poured the remains of the wine in the other 
cup. But already her mind no longer occupied itself 
with the wants of the body; her thoughts, wholly 
absorbed, had regained their sombre range. — “What 
is it I am doing here?” she said to herself, “ why 
lose the time? Either I must convince the 
traitor of his treason, or X must attempt to re- 
claim him once more.” She turned suddenly 
towards Aissa, who followed with anxiety each of 
her movements. “Well, young girl, you who 
have so innocent a look, that I think I see your 
soul through your sparkling eyes; reply to a 
woman, the most unfortunate ot women, have you 
pride? Do you at times envy this splendour of my 
prosperity? Have you as an adviser, at the gloomy 
hours of night, an evil genius, who turns you from 
love to push you towards ambition? Oh! answer 
me; oh! remember that my future destiny is in the 
word you will pronounce; answer me as you 
would answer God. Did you know anything of 
this project of abduction? Did you suspect it? Did 
you hope for it?” 

“ Madame,” replied A'issa, in a manner both 
sweet and sad, “ you, my kind protectress, you 
who have seen me fly to meet my lover with a 
joy so ardent, you ask me if I wished to meet 
another?” 

“ You are right,” said Donna Maria, impatiently ; 
“ But your reply, which might contain all the 
candour of .your mind, still seems to me a sub- 
terfuge; you see, ’tis that my mind is not as pure 
as thine, and that all the passions of the earth 
darken and disturb it; I, therefore, repeat my 
question, are you ambitious; and would you never 
console yourself for the loss of your love, with the 
hope of a grand fortune — of a throne?” 

“ Madame,” replied Aissa, shuddering, “ I am 
not endowed wuth eloquence, and I know not if I 
shall be enabled to persuade your grief; but, by 
the living God, be he mine, or be he yours, X 
swear to you, that in the event of Don Pedro 
holding mein his power, and forcing upon me his 
love, I swear to you that l shall have a poignard 
to pierce my heart, or a ring, like you 's, to inhale 
a mortal poison. 

“ A ring like mine!” exclaimed Donna Maria, 
recoiling suddenly, and concealing her hand 
beneath her mantle, “you know ” 

“I know, because every one in this palace has 
whispered it; that devoted to the king, Don Pedro, 
aud trembling to fall into the hands of his 
enemies, you are in the habit of carrying in this 
ring a subtle poison, to give' you freedom when 


necessary — *t ; s also a custom of the people of my 
country; for my Agenor, I shall be neither less 
valiant nor less faithful than you for Don Pedro. 
I will die when I see that he is about to lose his 
treasure.” 

Donna Maria pressed the hands of Aissa, 
kissed her even on the forehead with a savage 
tenderness: —“You are a generous child,” she 
said, “ and your words would point out my duty 
to me, if I had not something more sacred in 
this world to guarantee than my love. Yes, I 
ought to die, having lost my future and my glory; 
hut who will watch over this coward and this 
ingrat whom 1 still love? Who will save him 
from a shameful death, from a ruin still more 
inglorious? He has not a friend, he has thousands 
of thirsty enemies. You do not love him, you 
will yield to no suggestion, 'tis all I desire, because 
the contrary was the only thing I feared. Now I 
am tranquil, and the line I am to follow is traced 
out to me. Before Aurora shall appear to morrow, 
there shall be in Spain a change that the whole 
universe shall talk of.” 

“ Madame,” said Aissa, “ beware of the hastim ss 
of your courageous spirit; remember that I am 
alone in the world, that I have neither hope or 
happiness, but in you and by you.” 

“ 1 think of all this, misfortune purifies my 
mind; J am no longer selfish, having no longer a 
vulgar love. Listen, Aissa, my part is taken; I 
shall seek Don Pedro. Search well in the casket 
inlaid with gold in the next room, you will find 
a key. ’Tis the key of a secret door adjoining 
the apartments of Don Pedro.” 

Aissa left, and returned with the key, of which 
Marifc took possession: — “ Must I remain alone in 
this gloomy dwelling, madam?” said Aissa. 

“ I know of a retreat inviolable for you Here, 
perhaps, they might penetrate to you; but come to 
the end of the chamber from which you took the 
key, there is a last room enclosed with walls and 
without issue. I will shut you in, you will have 
nothing to fear.” 

“Alone! oh, no! alone I should be afraid.” 

“ Child, you cannot, however, accompany me! It 
is from the king that I fear anything; well, since 
it is to him I go ” 

“ It’s true, ’ said Aissa, “ yes, madame — well, I 
resign myself, I will wait— not in that dark and 
secluded chamber, oh! no, but here, on the 
cushions on which you have reposed, there all will 
remind me of your presence and your protection.” 

“ Y ou must, however, repose.” 

“ I have no need of it, madame.” 

“As you like, Aissa; pass the time of my 
absence in supplicating your God to make me 
triumph, for then, to-morrow, at daybreak, and 
without apprehensions, you shall take the road 
that leads to Rianzares; to morrow, you may, on 
quitting me, say to yourself, ‘ I go to my husband, 
and on earth no power ‘shall be strong enough to 
separate me from him.’ ” 

“Thanks, madame, thanks!” exclaimed the 
young girl, covering with kisses the hands of her 
generous friend. “ Oh ! yes, yes, I will pray, oh ! 
yes, God will listen to me.” 

At the moment the two young women ex- 
changed this tender adieu, might have been seen, 
at the extremity of the patio, mounting by de- 
grees the branches of the orange trees, a curious 
head, that placed itself o» a level with the gallery, 
in the thickest of the shade. This head, hidden 
amongst the leaves, remained motionless. 

Donna Maria quitted the young girl, and stepped 
lightly towards the gallery of the secret door. 


THE IKON FI AND; OR, THE KNTGHT OP MAULEON. 


185 



Thehea 1 ’" : 'hout moving, regarded with its large 
white eyes Donna Maria, saw her enter the mys- 
terious corridor, and listened. In fact, the noise of 
a door creaking on its rusty hinges was heard at the 
other extremity of the corridor, and immediately 
the head disappeared from the middle of the tree, 
like that of a serpent that hastily slides down. It was 
tke Saracen, Hafiz, who thus glided down the 
polished trunk of the citrons. At the foot he found 
another sombre figure who awaited him. 

“How now, Hafiz! you descend already?” said 
th : s individual to him. 

“ Yes, master, for I have nothing more to see in 
the apartment, Donna Maria has just left it.” 

“ Where is she gone?’’ 

“ To the end of the gallery, on the right, and 
there she disappeared.” 

“ Disappeared !'( )h ! by the holy name of the 
prophet, she has taken the secret door and goes 
tc speak with <tke king; we are lost!” 


“You know thatl am at your orders. Seigneur 
Mothril,” said Hafiz, turning pale. 

“ Good, follow me towards the royal apart- 
ments; all are asleep at this hour. There are 
neither guards nor courtiers You shall mount 
by the patio of the king as far as his window, as 
you have just done, and you shall listen there as 
you have here.” 

“There is a more simple method, Seigneur 
Mothril, and you my listen yourself.’’ 

“ Which? — make haste, by the prophet!” 

“ Follow me, then. I shall mount a column of 
the patio, I shall arrive at a window, I shall there 
intr oduce myself, and glide to a back door which 
I will open to you. By these means, you may 
listen at your ease to all that Don Pedro and 
Maria de Padilla say, or are saying at this 
moment.” 

“ You are right, Hafiz, and the prophet in- 
spires you ; I will do as you say. Show me the w ay.” 



186 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


CHAPTER LVH. 

EXPLANATION. 


Donna Maria had not deceived herself, the 
danger was extreme. 

Weary of a possession of many years, surieited 
with success, and corrupted by adversity, which 
purifies good natures that have strayed, Don 
Pedro felt the need of stimulants for evil, but in no 
way counsel for good. It was necessary to 
change the dispositions of this mind, and nothing 
would have been impossible with love; but it was 
feared that Don Pedro had no longer any for 
Maria. 

She entered, then, blindly the road so well 
lighted for Mothril her enemy; no douht, if she 
had encountered the Moor on her way, and had 
held a poignard, she would have struck without 
pity, for she felt that his cursed influence weighed 
down her life for a year past, and began to 
rule it. Maria thought £*11 this when she opened 
the secret door and found herself in the apart- 
ment of the king. 

Don Pedro, terrified, uncertain, wandered like 
a spectre in the gallery. The silence of Donna 
Maria, her calm rage, gave him the strongest 
apprehensions, and the most dangerous anger: 

“ I am braved,’’ he said, “ even in my very 
court; they show me that I am not the 
master, and really I am not so, since the 
arrival of a woman deranges all my projects, and 
destroys the hope of all my pleasures. ’Tis a 
yoke that I must break ; if I am not strong enough 
to act alone, they will assist me.” 

He was saying these words when Maria, who 
had glided like a fairy on the polished flag stones, 
arrested him by the arm, and said: — “Who will 
aid you, senor?” 

“Donna Maria!” exclaimed the king, as though 
he had seen a spectre. 

“Yes, Donna Maria, who comes to demand of 
you, of you, the king, in what the advice, the 
yoke if you will, of a noble Spaniard, of a woman 
who loves you, is more dishonouring and more 
burdensome, than the yoke imposed on Don 
Pedro by Mothril, on a Christian king by a 
Moor?” 

Don Pedro contracted his hands wdth rage. 

“No impatience,” said Donna Maria; “no 
passion, ’tis neither the hour nor the place. 
You are here in your palace, and I, your subject, 
am not come to dictate my pleasure to you. 
Thus, master as you are, senor, do not take the 
trouble to irritate yourself; the lion does not 
quarrel # ith the ant.” 

Don Pedro was not accustomed to these humble 
protestations of his mistress. He stoppeo, con- 
founded:— “ What is your desire, then, madame?’’ 
he said. 

“ But little, # senor ; you love, it appears, 
another woman, you have the right; I shall not 
examine whether you make a good or a bad use 
of it — ’tis your right. I am not your wife, and 
were I so, I should remember what, on my 
account, you have inflicted, in griefs and tortures, 
on tdose who were your wives.” 

“Do you reproach me with it?” proudly said 
Don Pedro, who sought an occasion to get 
irritated.” 

Donna Maria sustained his look with firmness : 
— “ I am not God,” she said, “to reproach the 
crimes of kings! I am a woman, alive to-day, 
dead to-morrow, an atom, a breath, a naught; but 
I have a voice, and I use it, to tell you what you 


will hear from none but me. You love, King Don 
Pedro, and every time this has happened to you, 
a cloud has passed before your eyes, and has hid 
the universe from you. But — you turn your head 
— what do you hear? what preoccupies you?” 

“ I fancied I heard,” said Don Pedro, “ some 
steps in the adjoining chamber — no! ’tis im- 
possible.” 

“ Why impossible? all is possible here — look, 
sire, I beg — they are listening to us!” 

“No! there is no door to that room, and I have 
no attendants near me. ’Tis the evening breeze 
that has raised the screen, and makes the flap of 
the window beat.” 

“I was saying to you,” continued Donna Maria, 

“ that as you love me no longer, I have taken 
the resolution to retire.” 

Don Pedro made a movement. 

“ This renders you happy, I am glad of it,” said 
Donna Maria, coldly — “I do it for that. I shall 
retire, then, and you will not again hear me 
mentioned. From this moment, senor, you have 
no longer for a mistress Donna Maria de Padilla, 
’tis an humble servant, who will speak to you tne 
truth as to your position. You have gained a 
battle, but they will tell you that others have 
gained it for you; your ally, in such a case, is 
your master, and will prove it you sooner or 
later. Already, even, the Prince of Wales de- 
mands considerable sums that a## due to him; 
this money — you have it not; the twelve thousand 
lances that have fought for you, will turn against 
you. The prince, however, your brother, has 
found assistance in France, and the constable, 
cherished by everything that bears a French 
name, will return with the thirst for revenge. 
These are two armies you will have to fight. 
What will you oppose to them? — an army of 
Saracens. Oh! Christian aing! you have but one 
I means of re-entering the confederation of the 
princes of the church, and you deprive yourself of 
these means. You would draw upon yourself, 
besides temporal weapons, the rage of the Pope 
and excommunication ! Reflect upon it, the 

Spaniards are religious, they will abandon you, 
already even the vicinity of the Moors terrifies 
and disgusts them. This is not all — the man 
who drives you to your ruin does not find it com- 
plete in misery and degradation, that is, in exile 
and defeat; he would impose upon you an 
infamous alliance, he would make of you a rene- 
gade. God hears me; I do not hate, I love Aissa, 
I protect her, I defend her, as a sister, for I know 
her heart, and I know her life. Aissa, were she 
the daughter of a Saracen king, which she is not, 
senor, and I will prove it, is not more worthy of 
being your wife than I, the daughter of the 
ancient knights of Castile, I, the noble heiress of 
twenty ancestors, each worth a Christian king; 
and yet, never have I demanded of you to conse- 
crate our love by a marriage! Certainly, I 
could have done so; certainly, King Don Pedro, 
you had loved me!” 

Don Pedro sighed. 

“This is not all, Mothril talks to you of the 
love of Aissa; what am I saying? He promises it 
to you, perhaps?” 

Don Pedro looked uneasy, and greatly in- 
terested, as if to seize, before they were uttered, 
the words of Maria. 

“ He promises that she will love you, does he 
not?” 

“ Suppose it were so, madame.” 

“ It might be, sire, and you merit more than 
love; there are certain persons of your kingdom, 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


187 


and those persons are the equals of A'issa, I think, 
who have for you more than adoration. ” 

The brow of Don Pedro became clearer; Donna 
Maria made to vibrate every sensible chord of his 
soul. 

“ But still,” continued the young woman, 
“ Donna A’issa will not love you, because she 
loves another.” 

“Is that true!” exclaimed Don Pedro with 
fury. “ Is it not a calumny?’’ 

“So little of a calumny, seigneur, that if you at 
once question A’issa, if you question her before 
she can communicate with me, she will tell you 
word for word what I am about to say to you.” 

“ Speak, madame, speak; by so doing you will 
render me a real service. A’issa loves some one? 
Who does she love?” 

“ A French knight, named Agenor de Mau- 
leon. 

“ The ambassador who was sent to me at Soria? 
And Mothril knows it?” 

“ He knows it.” 

“ You affirm it?” 

“ I swear it!” 

“ And her heart is so fixed, that to promise 
me her love has been, on the part of Mothril, 
a shameful lie, an odious treason?” 

“ A shameful lie, an odious treason.” 

“ You will prove it, sen ora?” 

“ The moment you order it, seigneur.” 

“ Repeat it to me, that I may persuade myself 
of its truth.” 

Donna Maria felt her superiority over the king. 
She held him by jealousy and by pride. 

“ ‘ By the living God,’ said A’issa to me but 
now, and her words still echo in my ears, ‘ I 
swear to you, that in case Don Pedro held me in 
his power and forced his love upon me, I swear to 
you that I should have a poignard to pierce my 
heart, or a ring like yours to inhale a mortal 
poison,’ and she indicated to me this ring I have 
on my finger, senor ” 

“That ring?” said Don Pedro, terrified. “What 
has that ring, t- en, senora?” 

“ It encloses, in fact, a subtle poison, senor. I have 
worn it for two years to secure my liberty of 
Dody and soul in the event of my one day, in the 
evil chances of your fortune that I have so faith- 
fully followed, encountering one who would deliver 
me to your enemies.” 

Don Pedro felt something like remorse in the 
presence of this heroism, so simple and so touch- 
ing. “ You are,” he said, “ a noble heart, Maria, 
and I have never loved a woman as I have 
loved you; but evil chances are far off- -you may 
live!” 

“As he lias loved me!” thought Maria, turning 
pale, but without betraying herself. “ He no 
longer says as he loves me!” 

“And this is Ai’ssa’s thought?” said Don Pedro, 
after a silence. 

“ Entirely, senor.” 

“ ’Tis an idolatry for this French knight.” 

“’Tis a love equal to that I have had for you,” 
replied Donna Maria. 

“ That you have had?” said Don Pedro, more 
feeble than his mistress, and showing his wound 
at the first touch of the lance 

“Yes! seigneur.” 

Don Pedro knit his brows: — “ May I question 
A’issa.” 

“ When it pleases you.” 

“Will she sneak before Mothril?” 

“ Before Mothril, yes! seigneur.” 

“ She will mention all the details of her love?” 


“ She will avow even that which makes the 
shame of a woman.” 

“ Maria!” exclaimed Don Pedro, with a terri- 
ble burst, “ Maria, what have you said?” 

“The truth, always,” she replied simply. 

“ A’issa dishonoured!” 

“ A'issa, whom they would seat upon your 
throne, and place in your bed, is affianced to the 
Seigneur de Mauleon by ties which God alone can 
now break, for they are the ties of a marriage 
accomplished.” 

“Maria! Maria!” said the king, giving way to 
his fury. 

“ I owed you this last avowal. ’Twas I, who, 
solicited by her to introduce the Frenchman into 
the chamber in which Mothril kept her confined, 
I, who, protecting their loves, was to unite them 
on the soil of France.” 

“Mothril! Mothril! every punishment will be 
too lenient, every torture too mild, to make you 
expiate this base attempt. Bring A'issa to me, 
madam, I beg.” 

“Seigneur, I go; but reflect, I entreat you; I 
have betrayed the secret of this young girl, to 
serve the interest — the honour of my king. 
Would it not be better that you rely upon my 
word? Can you not believe me without this 
proof, which deprives of honour the young child?” 

“ Ah! you hesitate; you are deceiving me?” 

“ Seigneur, I do not hesitate, I seek to render 
a little more confidence to your majesty; this 
proof we shall have in a few days without eclat , 
without a scandal, that will ruin this young girl.” 

“ This proof I will have at once, and I call 
upon you to furnish it to me, under the penalty 
of not being believed in your accusations.” 

“ Seigneur, I obey,” said Maria, grievously 
affected. 

“I attep^ you very impatiently, madam.” 

“ Seigneur, you shall be obeyed.” 

“If you have spoken the truth, Donna Maria, 
to-morrow there shall be no longer in Spain a 
single Moor, who is not either proscribed or 
fugitive.” 

“ Then to-morrow, seigneur, you will be a 
great king; and I, a poor fugitive, a poor aban- 
doned mistress, will return thanks to God for the 
greatest happiness he has accorded me in this 
world; the certainty of your prosperity.” 

“ Senora, you are pale, you stagger, would you 
wish me to call?” 

“ Call no one, sire — no, I will return to my 
chamber. I have ordered wane; I have prepared 
a refreshment which waits for me on the table; I 
am burning, but when once I have quenched my 
thirst, I shall be quite n^self; think no further 
about me, I beg. But I sw'ear to you,” said 
Maria, suddenly, rushing towards the adjoining 
room, “I swear there was some one there; this 
time I heard, and I am not deceived, the step of 
a man.” 

Don Pedro took a light, Maria another, and 
both hastened to the room; it was deserted, 
nothing announced that any one had entered it; 
but a door-screen still trembled at the exterior 
door mentioned by Hafiz. 

“ No <me,” said Maria, surprised, “ I plainly 
heard, however.” 

“I told you so; it was impossible. Oh! 
Mothril! Mothril! what vengeance I will take 
for yoier treason! You will return, then, ma- 
dam ?” 

“ Merely time to apprise ATssa and to follow 
the secret passage.” Having thus spoken, Donna 
Maria took leave of the king, who, in his feverish 


183 


THE IRON HANS ; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 

— — f „i f t i 


impatience, almost confounded the acknowledg- 
ment of the service rendered, with the remem- 
brance of former love. In fact, Maria was 
indeed a handsome and desirable woman; a 
woman not to be forgotten when once seen. 
Proud and audacious, she imposed respect, she 
conquered love. More than once, this despotic 
king trembled to see her when irritated; oftener 
still, this surfeited heart palpitated in expectation 
of her coming. 

Thus, when she departed, after having given 
this explanation, Don Pedro had ran after her to 
say to her: — “Of what importance is Aissa? 
What matters the little basenesses they hatch in 
the dark? You are the one I love, you are the 
fruit my thirst so ardently desires.” But Donna 
Maria had closed the iron door, and the king 
heard nothing but the rustling of her robe against 
the walls, and the cracking of the dry branches 
that gave way beneath her step. 

CHAPTER LVIII. 

maria’s ring and aissa’s poignard. 

Mothril's foot had lightly grazed the floor when 
Donna Maria thought she heard some one moving 
in the room. Mothril had taken off* his sandals 
to get as far as the tapestry, to hear what was 
hatching against him; the revelation of Aissa’s 
secret had pierced him with fear and horror. 
That Donna Maria hated him he did not doubt; 
that she sought to ruin him by questioning his 
policy, and unmasking his ambition, the Moor 
was certain; but what he could not support was 
the idea that Don Pedro became indifferent 
towards Aissa. 

Aissa affianced to Mauleon, Aissa stripped of 
her spotless purity, became for Don Pedro an 
object without charm and withoift value; and no 
longer to hold Don Pedro by Aissa’s love, was to 
lose the tie that bound an untamed courser. A 
few moments more, and all this scaffolding, so 
painfully erected, would crumble to pieces. Aissa, 
sure of being protected, would come with her 
companion tc reveal to Don Pedro the whole 
secret. Donna Maria would then resume her 
rights, and Aissa would lose hers; and Mothril, 
humbled, cursed, and driven away, illtreated as a 
miserable forger, would, with his companions, 
take the funereal road to exile, supposing that he 
was not on the instant sent to the tomb by the 
tempest of royal fury. Such were the prospects 
unfolded to the Moor, whilst Maria conversed 
with Don Pedro, and during which her words 
fell one by one like drops of molten lead on the 
living wound of this ambitious man. Breathless, 
bewildered, now burning like the stormy surf, now 
cold as marble, Mothril asked himself why, his 
hand on a faithful poignard, he did not kill the 
master who listened, and the revelator who spoke; 
why, indeed, he did not save his life and his 
cause? If Dyn Pedro bad had near him another 
guardian angel than Maria, this angel would not 
have failed to apprise him at this moment that he 
was exposed to a terrible danger. 

Suddenly the features of Mothril cleared up, 
the sweat fell less abundantly, less clammy. Two 
words of Maria had indicated* to him a way of 
security, as also the idea of a crime. He left her, 
therefore, to finish tranquilly; she might tell her 
whole thoughts to Don Pedro, and it was only at 
the last words of the conversation, when he had 
no longer anything to learn, that he left his 
hiding place and the screen trembled behind him, 


as Don Pedro and Maria had remarked. Mothril* 
once outside, stopped for a few seconds, and said: 
— “By the secret passage she will take thrice the 
time that I shall take to enter the chamber.” 
“ Hafiz,” he said, touching the shoulder of the 
young tiger, whe watched ljis every movement, 
“ run to the passage of the gallery, stop Donna 
Maria when she presents herself, ask pardon of 
her as though repentance had overtaken you, 
accuse me, if you like — confess, reveal, do any- 
thing you like, but retain her five minutes before 
she enters the gallery.” 

“Good! master,” said Hafiz. And. climbing 
like a lizard on the wooden coljmn of the patio, 
he entered the passage, in which was already 
heard the steps of Donna Maria, who approached. 

In the meantime, Mothril made the tour of the 
garden, mounted the staircase of the gallery, and 
entered the apartment of Donna Mario. In one 
hand he grasped his poignard, in the other he 
held a small gold flask which he had just taken 
from one of the folds of his wide belt. When he 
entered, the w r ax light, half consumed, ran in 
large flakes into the candlestick. Aissa, her eyes 
closed, was tranquilly asleep on the cushions; 
from her half- opened lips exhaled, with the per- 
fume of her breath, a cherished name. “ Iler 
first,” said the Moor, with a sombre regard; dead, 
she will not avow- what Donna Maria would make 
her say. Oh’ strike my child! ’ he murmured 
“my sleeping child, she to whom, perhaps, were 
I not pressed by fear, the Most High reserves a 
throne! We will wait, she shall, at least die the 
last — let me still preserve a momentary hope. 
He directly advanced to the table, took the silver 
cup, still half full of the drink prepared by Maria 
herself!, and poured into it the whole contents of 
the gold flask. “ Maria,” he quietly said, with a 
frightful smile, “ this poison that 1 fill for you, is 
not worth that, perhaps, which you carry in your 
ring, but we, poor Moors, are barbarians; excuse 
me, if my mixture does not please you, I offer 
you my poignard. He. had scarcely finished, 
when the supplicating voice of Hafiz reached his 
ear, with the more animated voice of Donna 
Maria, delayed in the secret passage. “ From 
pity, ’ said the young monster, “ pardon my 
youth, I knew not what my master made me do.” 

“ I shall see by-and by,” replied Maria, “leave 
me! I shall make enquiries and examine the evi- 
dence they bring me concerning you, the truth you 
hide from me.” Mothril immediately hid himself 
behind the drapery that masked the window. 
Placed there, he could see all— hear all; he could 
lush upon Maria when she wished to quit. Hafiz, 
dismissed by hei, disappeared slowly beneath the 
dusky gallery. Maria then entered her apart- 
ment and contemplated, with an indefinable ex-* 
pression, Ai'ssa plunged in a profound sleep. “ I 
have profaned in the eyes of a man your sweet 
secret of love,” she said, “ I have soiled your dove- 
like beauty, but the injury I have done you shall 
be repaired. Book child, you sleep under my pro- 
tection — sleep! one minute more I leave you to 
your cherished dream.” 

She made a step towards Aissa. Mothril grasped 
more firmly his large poignard; but the move- 
ment made by Donna Maria drew her near the 
table, where she saw her silver cup and the ver- 
milion liquid that beckoned her thirsty lips. She 
took the cup and drank a long draught. The l«st 
mouthful was still beneath her palate, when the 
freezing hand of death already touched her heart. 
She staggered her eyes became fixed — she pressed 
her two hands against her bosom, and imagining, 


THE IKON HAND; OK, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


189 


in this inconceivable suffering, a fresh calamity — 
a new treason, perhaps, she looked round her with 
anxiety — with terror, as if to interrogate solitude 
and sleep, the two silent witnesses of her suffering. 
The pain burst out in her bosom like a raging 
fire; Maria became red, her hands contracted -it 
seemed as if her heart ascended to her throe, t, and 
she opened her mouth to utter a cry. Quick as 
lightning, Mothril prevented this cry by a mortal 
pressure. Maria in vain struggled in his arms — 
in vain she bit the fingers of the Saracen, who 
closed her mouth. Mothril, while he thus re- 
strained the arms and the voice of the unfortunate 
woman , extinguished the light, and at the same 
tiiner&iaria fell into darkness and death. For a 
few moments her feet beat the floor with a noise 
that awakened the young Moresca, her companion. 
A'issa rose up, and attempting to walk in the dark- 
ness, stumbled over the corpse. She fell into the 
arms of Mothril, who seized her by the hands and 
threw her down by the side of Maria, laying open 
Tier shoulder by a thrust with his poignard. Inun- 
dated with blood, A'issa fainted. Mothril then 
drew off the ring which contained the poison. He 
emptied this poison into the silver goblet, and re- 
placed it on the finger of his victim, then tinging 
in the blood the poignard which the young 
Moresca carried at her belt, he deposited it near 
Maria, in such a manner that her fingers touched 
it. This horrible drama was accomplished in 
less time than is necessary for a serpent of the 
Indies to stifle two gazelles he has intercepted, 
enjoying the sun in the pastures of the Sa- 
vannah. 

Mothril, that he might entirely accomplish his 
task, had but to place himself beyond reach of all 
suspicion. Nothing was easier. He entered 
the adjoining patio, as if returning from a sar- 
veilling excursion. He enquired of the king's 
attendants if his majesty was in bed. They re 
plied that the king had been seen promenading 
with a sort of impatience in the secret gallery. 
Mothril demanded his cushions, ordered a follower 
to read him a few verses of the Koran, and ap- 
peared to abandon himself to a profound sleep. 

Hafiz, without having been enabled to consult 
his master, had understood him, thanks to his in- 
stinct; he had mixed with the guards of Don 
Pedro, with his accustomed gravity. Half-an- 
hour thus elapsed. The deepest silence reigned 
throughout the palace. Suddenly a heart-rending, 
terrible cry, echoed from the extremity of the 
royal gallery, and the voice of the king uttered 
these terrifying words:— “ Help! Help!” 

Every one rushed towards the gallery, the 
guards with their naked swords, the attendants 
with the first weapon that fell to hand. 

Mothril, rubbing his eyes and stretching him- 
self as though weary with sleep, demanded: — 

“ What’s the matter?” 

“ The king! the king!” replied the eager 
crowd. 

Mothril rose up and hastened behind the others; 
he saw advancing in the same direction Hafiz, who 
was also rubbing his eyes, and appears 1 bewildered 
wuth surprise. 

Don Pedro was now seen, a light in his hand, 
on the threshold of the apartment of Donna 
Maria. He was uttering loud cries, was pale, and 
from time to time, turning towards the apartment, 
he redoubled his groans and imprecations. 

Mothril cut through the crowd that surrounded, 
silent and trembling, the half-mad prince. Ten 
flambeaus threw on the gallery their blood red 
glare. , 


| “See! see!” cried Don Pedro; “dead! both 
dead!” 

“ Dead!” repeated the crowd in a whisper. 

“ Dead!” said Mothril; “ who dead, seigneur?” 

“Look, shameless Saracen!” said the king, 
whose hair stood on end. 

The Moor took a torch from the hands of one 
I of the soldiers, he slowly entered the chamber, 

| and recoiled, or feigned to recoil, at sight of the 
j two bodies and the blood that stained the floor, 
i “Donna Maria!” he said; “Donna A'issa!’ 1 he 
exclaimed; “Allah!” 

The crowd tremblingly repeated: “Donna 
Maria! Donna A'issa! dead!” 

Mothril knelt and contemplated the two victims 
with a painful attention. The king spoke not a 
word; Mothril made a sign— every one retired 
slowly. 

“ Seigneur,” repeated the Moor in the same tone 
of affectionate resistance, “ there has been a crime 
committed.’ 

.“Villain!” exclaimed Don Pedro, doming to 
himself, “you here, you who have betrayed me!” 

“ My lord suffers much, since he thus ill-treats 
his best friends,” said Mothril, with unalterable 
mildness. 

“Maria! — A'issa!” repeated Don Pedro, de- 
lirious, “ dead!” 

“ Seigneur, I do not complain,” said Mothril. 

“Thou! thou complain, wretch! and of what 
would’st thou complain?” 

“ Of this, that I see in the hand of Donna Maria 
the weapon that has shed the illustrious blood of 
my kings, killed the daughter of my venerated 
master, the grand caliph.” 

“It’s true,” murmured Don Pedro, “The 
poignard is in the hand of Donna Maria; but 
herself — her, whose features present so frightful 
an aspect, whose eye threatens, whose lips foam — 
she — Donna Maria, who has killed her?” 

“ How should I knew, seigneur — I, w'ho slept, 
and entered here after you?” And the Saracen, 
after contemplating the livid visage of Maria, 
shook his head without speaking; but he curiously 
examined the cup still half full. “Poison!” he 
murmured. 

The king stooped over the corpse, of which he 
seized the stiffened hand with a sombre terror. 
Ah!” exclaimed Don Pedro, “the ring is empty!” 

“ The ring?” repeated Mothril, feigning sur- 
prise, “ what ring?” 

“ Yes,” continued the king, “ the ring with the 
mortal poison. Ah! look! Maria has killed her- 
self!” said the king. “ Maria, for whom .1 waited, 
who might have hoped for my love.” 

“No seigneur, I think you are deceived; Donna 
Maria was jealous, and knew for some time past 
that your heart was filled by another woman. 
Donna Maria, remember, sire, must have been 
struck with alarm and mortally wounded in her 
pride, on seeing approach you A'issa, whom you 
called. Her anger passed, she has preferred 
death to abandonment. Besides, she died not 
without vengeance, and, for a Spaniard, vengeance 
is a pleasure more preferable than life.” 

This discourse was a skilful perfidy; the tone 
of innocent confidence in which it was pronounced, 
imposed for a moment on Don Pedro; but on a 
sudden he was hurried away with grief, by re- 
sentment, and exclaimed, seizing the Moor by the 
throat, “ Mothril, you lie ! Mothril, you are play- 
ing with me! You attribute the death of Donna 
Maria to regret at my abandonment of her; you 
do not know then, or you feign not to know, that 
I preferred to all, Donna Maria, my noble friend.’ 


190 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OE MAULEON. 


“ Seigneur* you did not say this to me the other 
day, when you accused Donna Maria of wearying 

^ Tell me not this, cursed man, in presence of 

this corpse.” ... . . 

“ Seigneur, I will chain my tongue, I will take 
away my life rather than displease my king, but I 
would calm his grief, and I attempt it uke a 

faithful friend.” . , 

“Maria! A'issa!” said Don Pedro, bewildered . 
“My kingdom to purchase one hour of your fife!” 

“ God acts in his own wisdom,” lugubriously 
chaunted the Moor. “He has withdrawn from 
me the joy of my old age, the flower of my me, 
the pearl of innocence that cheered my house. 

Miscreant!” exclaimed Don Pedro, in whom 
these words, designedly uttered, awakened selfish- 
ness and consequently fury; “you still speak ot 
the innocence and candour of A'issa — you who 
knew her love for the French knight— you who 

knew of her dishonour!” 

“Me!” replied the Moor, in a stifled voice, 
“me! I knew of the dishonour of Donna A'issa? 
A'issa was dishonoured? Ah !” he said, in a groan 
of passion which, although affected, was not the 
less terrible, “ who has said this? 

“ Her whom your hatred will no longer preju- 
dice! her who never lied! her whom death has 
snatched from me !” 

“Donna Maria!” said the Saracen with con- 
tempt; “she had an interest in saying so -she 
might well say this from love, since she has died 
from love; she might well slander from vengeance, 
since she ha,s killed from vengeance. Don Pedro 
remained silent and reflecting before this accusa- 
tion, so logical and so bold. “ if Donna Aissa were 
not pier-ced with a poignard,’ added Mothril, 
“ they would tell you, perhaps, that she had 
assassinated Donna Maria.” 

This last argument exceeded the limits of auda- 
xty. Don Pedro made use of it to serve himself. 

“Why not?” he said; “Donna Maria had 
revealed to me the secret of your Moresca; might 
not the latter have revenged herself on the 
revealer?” 

“Pay attention,” replied Mothril; “that the 
ring of Donna Maria is empty. Now who has 
emptied it, if not herself? King, you are very 
blind, since you do not see, by the death of these 
two women, that Donna Maria had deceived 
you.” 

“How so? she was to bring me the proof, to 
bring me A'issa to repeat the words of Maria!” 

“ Has she come?” 

“ She is dead.’’ 

“ Because, to return, she must prove it, and 
prove it she could not.” 

Don Pedro again bent down his head, lost in 
this terrilqLe obscurity:— “ The truth!” mur- 
mured Don Pedro, “who will tell me the truth?” 

“ I tell it you.” 

“Thou!” exclaimed the king, with redoubled 
hatred; “thou art a monster who persecuted 
Donna Maria, who wished me to abandon her; 
’tis thou who hast caused her death. Well! thou 
shall disappear from my domains, thou shall take 
the road to exile, this is the only favour I can 
grant thee.” 

“Silence, seigneur! a prodigy!” replied Moth- 
ril, without replying to this passionate burst of 
Don Pedro; “the heart of Donna A'issa beats 
underneath my hand; she lives! she lives!” 

“She lives!” exclaimed Don Pedro: “you are 
sure of it?” 

“ I feel the beating of her heart.” 


“The wound is not mortal, perhaps — a phy- 
sician !” 

“ None among Christians,” said Mothril, with a 
sombre authority, “ shall place a hand on a noble 
daughter of my nation; A'issa will not, perhaps, be 
saved, but if she is, it shall be by myself alone.” 

“Save her! Mothril, save her! that she may 
speak.” 

Mothril fixed on the king a steady look, 
“That she may speak?” he said; “seigneur, she 
shall speak.” 

“ Well! Mothril, then we shall see.” 

“Yes, seigneur, we shall see whether I am a 
slanderer, and if A'issa is dishonoured.” 

Don Pedro, who was kneeling before the v two 
bodies, now regarded the sinister countenamle of 
Maria, contracted by a hideous death, then the 
calm and gentle features of Aissa, who had fallen 
asleep in her swoon. “Ah!” said he to himself; 
“ Donna Maria was very jealous, and I still re- 
member. that she did not formerly defend Blanche 
de Bourbon, whom I have murdered for her.” He 
rose up, unwilling longer to contemplate the 
young girl. “ Save her, Mothril!” he said to 
the Saracen. 

“ Fear nothing, seigneur, I wish her to live, she 
will live.” 

Don Pedro retired, struck with a sort of super- 
stitious terror, and it seemed to him that the 
spectre of Donna Maria rose from the ground 
and followed him into the gallery: — “If the 
young girl be in a state to speak,” he said, “ bring 
her to me, or apprise me of it, I would question 
her.” It was his last word. He re-entered his 
apartment without regret, without love, without 
hope. 

Mothril ordered the doors to be closed; he made 
Hafiz gather some different balsams, the juice of 
which he expressed over Aissa’s wound, a wound 
which his skilful poignard had made with the 
dexterity of a surgeon’s knife. Aissa came to 
herself as soon as Mothril had made her inhale 
some powerful aromatics. She was weak, but her 
memory returning with her strength, the first use 
she made of life was to utter a cry of terror. She 
had perceived the inanimate body of Maria 
Padilla lying at her feet, her eye still expressing 
menace and despair. 


CHAPTEK LIX. 

THE PRISON OF THE GOOD CONSTABLE. 

Duguesclin had been conducted to Bordeaux, the 
residence of the Prince of Wales, and he found 
himself treated with the greatest attention, but, 
as a prisoner, closely watched. The chateau, 
in which they had confined him, had a governor 
and a gaoler. A hundred men-at-arms composed 
his guard, and allowed no one to penetrate to the 
constable. At the same time, the most distin- 
guished officers of the English army looked upon 
it as an honour to pay a visit to the prisoner. 
John Chandos, the father of Albert, and the prin- 
cipal noblemen of Guiennes, obtained permission to 
dine and sup frequently with Duguesclin, who, a 
hospitable host and a merry companion, received 
them generously, and, that he might treat them 
well, borrowed money of the Lombards of 
Bordeaux '*1 his property in Brittany^ By de- 
btees the constable lulled the suspicions of the 
garrison; he appeared pleased with his prison, 
and announced no desire to be freed ftvm ifc. 
When the Prince of Wales visited him and sp, \e 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


191 


to nira of his ransom, and smiling: — “It will 
arrive,” he said, “mon seigneur; patience!” 

The prince then confided his troubles to him; 
Dugueselin, with his usual frankness, reproached 
him for having placed his genius and his power in 
the service of so bad a cause as that of Don Pedro. 
44 How,” he said, “ a knight of your rank and 
your merit to lower himself to defend this 
pillager, this assassin, this crowned renegade?” 

“ A reason of state,” replied the prince. 

44 And a wish to disturb France, eh?” replied the 
constable. 

“Ah! Messire Bertrand, do not make me talk 
politics,” said the prince; and they laughed. 

At^times, the duchess, with of the prince, sent to 
Bertrand refreshments, and presents worked by 
her own hand, and these kind attentions rendered 
more supportable to the prisoner his confinement 
in the fortress. But he had no one near him to 
whom he could confide his griefs, and these griefs 
were profound. He saw time sliding away, he felt 
that this army, raised with so much trouble, was 
lessening daily, would be more difficult to collect 
when necessary. He had almost under his eyes 
the spectacle of the captivity of twelve hundred 
officers and soldiers, his compainons, taken at 
Navarrete, the nucleus of an invincible troop, 
who, become free, would collect with ardour the 
remains of this immense power, crushed in a day 
of unexpected defeat Often he thought of the 
King of France, no doubt greatly embarrassed at 
this moment. He saw, from the seclusion of his 

E rison, the dear and venerable sire promenading, 
is head bent down, beneath the arbours of the 
garden of Saint Paul, now lamenting, now hoping 
and murmuring, like Augustus Bertrand! 
render me my legions!’ 7 “And, in the mean- 
time,” added Dugueselin, in his mental monologues, 

44 France is devoured by the reliux of the com- 
panies; the Caverleys, the green knights, like 
locusts, consume the remains of the poor harvest.” 
Dugueselin then thought of Spain, of the insolent 
abuses of Don Pedro, of the obscure condition of 
Henry, for ever hurled from the throne which he 
had touched with his hand. But now the con- 
stable could not prevent himself accusing the 
unworthy nonchalance of this prince, who, instead 
of ardently pursuing his work, of consecrating to 
it his fortune, his life, of raising half the Christian 
world against the Spanish infidels attached to Don 
Pedro, basely begged for his life with some 
tsttknown seigneur. When these bitter thoughts 
invaded the mind of the good constable, the 
prison appeared odious to him; he regarded the 
bars of iron as Samson did the fastenings of the 
gates of Gaza, and he fancied himself strong 
enough to carry off the walls on his shoulder. 
But prudence counselled him promptly to put a 
good countenance on it, and as to his Breton 
loyalty, Bertrand joined the cunning of the Bas 
Normand, as he was both crafty and vigorous, the 
constable never uttered such eclats of joy, he 
never drank so gaily, as in his hours of dis- 
couragement and ennui. Thus did he turn aside 
the suspicions of some of the most ruses English; 
a superior authority, however, maintained round 
the prisoner the most rigorous surveillance. 
Too proud to complain of it, the constable knew 
not to whom, nor to what, he could attribute this 
display of severity, which went so far as to stop 
the arrival of letters that were sent to him from 
France. 

• The English court had regarded as one of the 
happiest results of the victory of Navarrete the 
capture of Dugueselin. The constable, in fact, 


was the only serious obstacle which the English, 
eoramanded by a hero, such as the Prince of 
Wales, could encounter in Spain. King Edward, 
well advised, determined to extinguish by degrees 
his power in this country, ravaged by internal 
wars. He felt certain that Don Pedro, an ally of 
the Moors, would be sooner or later dethroned; 
that Don Henry, vanquished or killed, there re- 
mained no other pretendants to the throne of 
Castile, thenceforth an easy prey to the victorious 
army of the Prince of Wales. But if Bertrand 
were free, things changed their appearances; he 
could re-enter Spain, reconquer the advantage 
lost at Navarrete, drive out the English and Don 
Pedro, install for good Don Henry de Transta- 
mara, and overthrow the plan of domination which 
for five years, pieoccupied the councils of the 
King of England. Edward judged men less 
knightly than his son; he imagined that the 
constable might escape; that if he did not escape, 
he might be carried off; that even a prisoner, 
confined, powerless, between four walls 0 he might 
give some good advice, a good project of evasion, 
or a hope to the vanquished party. Thus had 
Edward placed over the constable two incorruptible 
surveillants, the governor and the gaoler, both of 
whom looked to no other authority than that 
direct from the grand council of England. 
Edward did not communicate to the Prince of 
Wales, so eminently noble and royal, the reserva- 
tions of his councillors; he feared that this 
prinoe would place some obstacle to them by a 
magnanimous resistance. The fact is, that the 
English monarch would not, at any price, restore 
the prisoner for any ransom, and hoped, by 
gaining time, to withdraw him from the hands of 
the Prince of Wales, have him conducted to 
London, where the Tower appeared to him, for 
such a treasure, a more faith! ul depository than 
the castle of Bordeaux. Certahtty, the Prince 
of Wales, if he had been advised of this determi- 
nation, would have set Dugueselin at liberty, 
without waiting for the official order. Thus did 
they await in London for the affairs of Spain to 
be arranged, for Don Pedro to be apparently 
consolidated on the throne, that France should l>e 
kept rigorously in check, to be enabled by a 
sudden coup-d'etat, by an order of the supreme 
council, to re cal the prince to London with his 
prisoner. Now the English monarch awaited the 
favourable moment. Dugueselin himself felt not 
the storm. He lived in confidence under the hand 
which he found all-powerful — of his conqueror of 
Navarrete. The day so anxiously desired by the 
illustrious prisoner at length shined through the 
bars of his chamber — the Sire de Laval arrived 
at Bordeaux with the ransom. This noble 
Breton sent to inform the Prince of Wales of his 
intentions and his mission. It was mid-day. 
The sun descended obliquely into the apartment 
of the constable, who, at this moment alone, 
sorrowfully regarded the rays disappear from the 
naked wall. The trumpets sounded, the drums 
beat; Bertrand understood that an illustrious 
visitor had arrived. The Prince of Wales entered 
his room uncovered, with a smiling face: — “ Well! 
Sire Constable,” he said, whilst Dugueselin sa- 
luted him with one knee on the ground, “ did you 
not wish for sunshine? — it is fair this morning!” 

“ The fact is, mon seigneur,” replied Dugueselin, 

44 that I should prefer the song of the n ghtingales 
of my own country to the little cries cf the Bor- 
deaux mice; but to what the Almighty does, man 
has nothing to object.” 

“Quite the contrary, Sire Constable; some*- 


192 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MATTLEON. 


times God proposes, and man disposes. Do you 
know the news from your country?” 

44 No, monseigneur,” said Bertrand, in a voice of 
emotion, so much of anguish and pleasure did 
this beloved name raise in his heart. 

“Well, Sire Constable, you will be free, the 
ransom is arrived.” Having thus spokeu, the 
prince tendered his hand to the astonished Ber- 
trand, and quitted him with a smile. At the 
door: — “ Messire Governor,” he said to the 
officer charged with the safe keeping of the 
prisoner, 44 you will permit, if you please, to ap- 
proach the constable, the friend and money which 
arrive to him from France.” Having said this, 
the prince left the castle. 

The governor, gloomy and silent, remained 
alone with the constable. This unexpected arri- 
val of Laval destroyed all the plans of the 
English council, and Duguesclin would be free, 
despite all. Without an express order from 
King Edward, the governor could offer no oppo- 
sition to the will Of the Prince of Wales, and 
this order had not arrived. The governor, how- 
ever, knew the inmost thoughts of the council of 
England; he knew that the. freedom of the con- 
stable would be a source of misfortune for his 
country, and a grief for King Edward. He 
therefore resolved to attempt to do by himself, 
that which the government had been as yet 
unable to do, so rapid had been the expedition of 
Mauleon, so enthusiastic had been the eagerness 
of the Bretons to liberate their hero. The 
governor then, instead of gi^jpg orders to the 
gaoler, as the Prince of Wales had commanded 
dim, went to keep the prisoner company. 44 You 
•are at length free, then, Sire Constable, ’’ he said, 

4 and it will be a real misfortune for us to lose 
mi.” 

Duguesclin smil^l: — 44 Why so?” he said with 
an air of raillerj| \ 

“’Tis so greaKjm honour, Messire Bertrand, 
for a poor simple knight, such as I am, to guard so 
powerful a warrior as you!” 

“Good!” said the constable, with his usual 
gaiety, 44 l am one of those who are always 
captured in battle. The prince will again make 
me a prisoner, ’tis infallible, and then you shall 
guard me again; for, I swear, you guard me 
well.” 

The governor sighed. 44 There remains to me 
one consolation,” he said. 

44 Where?” 

“I have under guard all your companions, 
twelve Hundred Bretons, prisoners like yourself; 

I shall talk with them about you.” 

Duguesclin felt his joy abandon him at the idea 
that his friends would remain prisoners, whilst 
he, escaping from slavery, again beheld his 
country’s sun. 

44 These worthy companions,” added the gover- 
nor, “will be grieved to see you depart; but, by 
my good offices, I shall diminish the ennui of 
their captivity.” 

Another sigh from Bertrand, who, this time, 
began to perambulate in silence the paved floor 
of his chamber. 

44 Oh!” continued the governor, 44 the grand 
prerogative of genius and of valour; one man, by 
his merit, is worth twelve hundred men at once!” 

44 How so?” said Bertrand. 

44 1 mean, messire, that the sum brought by the 
Sire de Laval to liberate you, would suffice to pay 
the ransom of your twelve hundred companions.” 

4 That is true,” murmured the constable, more 
thoughtful, more gloomy than ever. 


44 ’Tis the first time,” continued the Englishman 

that it has been visibly demonstrated to me iha* 
one man is worth an army: in fact, your twelve 
hundred Bretons, Seigneur Jonstable* are a real 
army, and would make a campaign by themselves 
alone. By Saint George! messire, were I in your 
place, and rich as your are, I would not leave this 
but as ait illustrious captain, with my twelve 
hundred soldiers!” 

“ This is a brave man,” said Duguesclin to 
himself, thoughtfully, he points me out my duty. 
In fact, it is not right that a man, made of flesh 
and blood like others, should cost his country as 
much as twelve hundred honest and valiant 
Christians. 

The governor followed with an attentive tye, 
the progress of his insinuation. 

44 Oh !” said Bertrand, suddenly, 44 you think 
that the Bretons will not cost more than seventy 
thousand florins for their ransom ?” 

44 1 am certain of it, Sire Constable.” 

44 And that the sum being paid, the prince will 
free them?” 

44 Without a haggle.” 

44 You will guarantee it?' 

4 * On my honour and my life,” said the gover- 
nor, trembling with joy. 

“Very well! introduce here, I beg you, the 
Sire de Laval, my countryman and friend. Send 
up also my scribe with everything requisite to 
draw out a memorandum in proper form.” 

The governor lost no time, he was so happy, 
that he forgot that his orders were to allow no 
one to penetrate to the prisoner but English and 
Navarrese, h is natural enemies. He transmitted 
to the astonished gaoler Bertrand’s orders; and 
ran himself to apprize the Prince of Wales. 

CHAPTER LX. 

THE RANSOM. 

Bordeaux was filled with tumult and agitation, 
caused by the arrival of the Sire de Laval, with 
his four mules loaded with gold, and the fifty men- 
at-arms bearing the banners of France and of 
Brittany. - A considerable crowd had followed the 
imposing cortege , and on every face was read 
either uneasiness and vexation, if it concerned an 
Englishman, or joy and triumph, if the face 
belonged to a Gascon or a Frenchman. The Sire 
de Laval received, in his passage, the congratula- 
tions of some, the sullen imprecations of others ; 
but his countenance was calm and impa&sable. 
After the trumpeters he headed the cortege , one 
hand on his poignard, the other on the bridle of 
his powerful black horse, and his visor raised; he 
pushed through the anxious crowd, without 
pressing or relaxing before any obstacle the pace 
of his war-horse. He arrived before the chateau 
in which Duguesclin was a prisoner, dismounted, 
gave his horse to the squires, and ordered the 
four muleteers to take off the coffers that con- 
tained the specie. The men obeyed. 

Whilst they lifted, one after another, the four 
weighty chests, and the curious eagerly pressed 
round the escort, a knight, with his visor down, 
without colours or device, approached the Sire 
de Laval, and said to him, in pure French : — 
44 Messire, you w ill have the happiness to see the 
illustrious prisoner, the still greater pleasure of 
restoring him to liberty; you will then bring him 
amidst the brave soldiers whe follow you; I, who 
am one of the best friends of the constable, may 
not perhaps have an opportunity of speaking to 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 193 


him ; will it please you to allow me to mount with 
| you to the donjon? ” 

“ Sire Chevalier,” said M. de Laval, “ your voice 
sounds sweet in my ear, you speak the language 
1 of* my country, but I do not know you, and if they 
ask me your name, 1 must tell a falsehood.” 

“ You will reply,” said the stranger, “ that I 
am the Bastard of Mauleon.” 

“ But you are not,” said Laval, quickly, “ since 
the Sire de Mauleon has left us to arrive more 
quickly in Spain. 

“ I come on his part, messire, do not refuse me, 
I have one word only to say to the constable, 
only^one — ” 

“ Tell me this word then, I will transmit it to 
him.^p 

“ I can only tell it to himself, and besides he 
will not understand it unless I show him my face. 

I entreat you, Sire de Laval, do not refuse me, in 
the name of the honour of the French arms, of 
which I swear to you, before God, I am one of the 
most zealous defenders.” 

“ I believe you, messire,” said the count, “ but 
on show me but little confidence, knowing who 
am,” he added, with a feeling of wounded pride. 

“ When you know who I am myself, Sire 
Count, you will not hold such language. Three 
days have I now passed in Bordeaux, endeavour- 
ing to penetrate to the constable, and neither 
gold nor cunning has succeeded.” 

“ To me you appear very suspicious,” replied 
the Count de Laval, “ and I will not charge my 
conscience with a lie on your account. Besides, 
what interest have you to mount to the consta- 
ble, who will leave in ten minutes? In ten 
minutes, in fact, he will be here, where you are, 
and you will speak to him this important 
word.” 

The stranger moved impatiently; “In the first 
place,” he said, “ I am not of your opinion, and 
I do not look upon the constable as free. Some- 
thing tells me that his liberation from prison will 
encounter more difficulties than you suppose; 
besides, in admitting that he will be free in ten 
minutes, count, I shall still have gained this time 
upon the road I shall take; I shall have escaped 
all the delays of c remony, of the setting atliberty ; a 
visit to the prince; thanks to the governor; fare- 
well feast. I entreat you, take me with you, I 
may be useful to you.” 

The stranger was interrupted at this moment 
by the gaoler, who appeared in the archway to 
mvite the Sire de Laval to enter the donjon. The 
count took leave of his importunate companion 
with an abrupt authority. The stranger knight, 
who seemed to tremble under his armour, retired 
along the pillars behind the men-at-arms, and 
waited, as if he still hoped for the last coffer to 
disappear on its road to the donjon. 

YVhilst the Sire de Laval mounted the stairs, 
was seen to pass by an open gallery, which joined 
the two wings of the castle, the Prince of Wales, 
preceded by the governor, and followed by Chandos 
and some officers; the conqueror of Navarrete 
went to pay his last visit to Duguesclin. 

All the people shouted Noe 1 and Long live Saint 
George , for - the Prince of Wales. The French 
trumpets sounded in honour of the hero, who 
courteously saluted them. The doors were then 
closed, and the crowd, growing closer by degrees, 
awaited with noisy murmurs the egress of the 
constable. 

The hearts of the Breton soldiers beat violently; 
they were about to see their great captain, whose 
liberty they would all have purchased with their ! 

12 


I lives. Half-an-hour, however, passed; the patience 
of those present began to turti to uneasiness, in 
the minds of the Bretons. The stranger knight 
tore his right gauntlet with his left one. 

Chandos again appeared in the open gallery, 
talking earnestly with the officers, who appeared 
amazed and stupified with surprise. 

When the door of the castle again opened, in- 
stead of giving passage to the liberated hero, there 
appeared the Sire de Laval, pale, defeated, trem- 
bling with emotion, who searched eagerly amongst 
the crowd. 

Several Breton officers rushed towards him. 
“ What’s the matter, then?” they enquired 
anxiously. > 

“Oh! a great disaster — a strange event!” re- 
plied the count. “ But where, then, is that stran- 
ger — that prophet of misfortune?” 

“Iam here,” said the mysterious knight; “I 
am here — I awaited you.” 

“ Do you still desire to see the constable?” 

“ More than ever.” 

“ Well, hasten, then, for in ten minutes it will 
be too late. Come! come! He is more a prisoner 
than ever.” 

“ We shall see,” replied the stranger, nimbly 
mounting the stairs behind the count, who drew 
him after him. 

The gaoler opened the door to them with a 
smile, and the assembled crowd commenced, in a 
thousand different tones, to comment on the event 
that delayed the liberation of the constable. 

“There!” said <^fietly the chief of the Bretons 
to his soldiers, the hand on the sword, and 
attention. 


. CHAPTER LXL 

HOW, INSTEAD OF RESTORING A PRISONER, THE 
GOVERNOR LIBERATED A WHOLE ARMY. 

The Englishman was not deceived, he knew his 
prisoner. Scarcely had the Sire de Laval re- 
ceived the order to enter the chateau scarcely 
had he thrown himself into the arms of the con- 
stable — scarcely, in fact, had the first moment of 
joy passed, than the constable, contemplating the 
coffers nrought bv the muleteers to the landing of 
the chamber; — “ What money !” he said, “ my dear 
friend.” 

“ Never was a tax more easily raised,” replied 
the Sire de Laval, who, proud of his countryman, 
knew not how to show him his respect and his 
friendship.” 

“ They are my brave Bretons,” said the con- 
stable, “and you have been the first to despoil 
yourself.” 

“You should have seen the pieces showered 
into the bags of the collectors,” exclaimed the 
Sire de Laval, delighted to annoy, by this enthu- 
siasm, the English governor, who had returned 
fiom his visit to the prince, and was tranquilly 
listening. 

“ Seventy thousand gold florins! what a sum,” 
again repeated the constable. 

“ What a sum when it concerns the collecting 
it; small, when it is collected, and about to be 
paid.” 

“ My friend,” interrupted Duguesclin “ sit 
down, I beg you; you know that there are here 
twelve hundred countrymen, prisoners like my- 
self.” 

“ Alas, yes, I know it. 

** Web! i have found the means of setting: them 

O 

« 


194 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


free. It was my fault that they were taken, to- 
day I will repair my fault.” 

“How so?” said the Sire de Laval, astonished. 

“ Have you had the kindness, Messire Governor, 
to bring up the scribe?” 

“ He is at the door, Sire Constable,” said the 
Englishman, “ and he attends your orders.” 

44 Let him enter.” The governor struck three 
times with his foot, the gaoler introduced the 
scribe, who, no doubt apprized, brought with him 
parchment, pens, ink, ami five long meagre fin- 
gers. 44 Write what I am about to dictate to you, 
my friend,’’ said the constable. 

44 1 attend, monseigneur.’ 

“I dictate: — 4 We, Bertrand Duguesclin, Con- 
stable of France and Castile, Count of Soria, 
make known by these presents, that our repent- 
ance is great, at having, in a day of overgrown 
pride, estimated our personal value at the price of 
twelve hundred good Christians and brave knights, 
who are certainly worth more than us.’ Here the 
good constable stopped, without studying on the 
different physiognomies, the effect of his preamble. 
The scribe wrote faithfully. 4 We humbly de- 
mand pardon of God and our brothers,’ continued 
Duguesclin, 4 and to repair our folly, we consecrate 
the sum of seventy thousand florins to the redemp- 
tion of twelve hundred prisoners made by his 
highness the Prince of Wales at Navarrete, of 
fatal memory.’ ” 

44 You engage your lands!” exclaimed the Sire 
de Laval; “ ’tis an unworthy abuse of generosity, 
Seigneur Constable.” 

44 No, my friend, my funds are already dissipated, 
and I cannot reduce Madame Tiphaine to poverty, 
she has suffered but too much already on my 
account.” 

u What will you do, then?” 

« The money you bring me is undoubtedly 
mine?” 

44 Assuredly ; but ” 

44 That is sufficient— if it is mine, I dispose of it 
8 1 my pleasure. Write, Messire the Scribe: 4 1 
charge with this ransom the seventy thousand 
florins brought me by the Sire de Laval ” 

44 But, Seigneur Constable,” exclaimed Laval, 
thunderstruck; “you will remain a prisoner 

44 And covered with immortal glory,” inter- 
rupted the governor. 

44 This is impossible,” continued Laval; “reflect 
upon it.” 

44 You have written,” said the constable to the 
scribe. 

44 Yes, monseigneur.” 

“Give it me, then, that I may sign;” the 
constable took the pen and signed rapidly. At 
this moment the trumpets announced the arri- 
val of the Prince of Wales. Already had the 
governor seized the parchment. 

When the Sire de Laval perceived the English 
prince, he ran to him, and bending his knee:- 
44 Seigneur,” he said; 44 here is tne money de- 
manded for the ransom of M. the Constable, do 
you accept it?” 

44 According to my w T ord, tnd wdlingly,’ said 
the prince. • 

44 This money is yours, monseigneur, take it, 
said the count. 

44 A moment,” said the governor; - 44 your high- 
ness is not informed of the incident that has taken 
place; will you be good enough to read this 
parchment.” 

44 To annul it!” exclaimed De Laval. 

44 To have it put in execution,” said the con- 
stable. 


The prince glanced at the writing, and, struck 
with admiration: — 44 ’Tis a noble action,’’ he said; 
44 and would that I had done it.” 

44 It would have been useless to you, monseig- 
neur,” observed Duguesclin; “you who were the 
conqueror.” 

44 Your highness will not retain the constable!” 
exclaimed Laval. 

44 No! certainly, if he wishes to leave,” said the 
prince. 

“But I wish to remain, Laval, I ought to; ask 
these seigneurs what they think of it.” 

Chandos, Albert, and the others, loudly ex- 
pressed their admiration. 

44 Well!” said the prince, 44 let-themlcount; the 
money, and you, messieurs, set at lifyeHy the 
Breton prisoners. 

It was now that the English officers went out; 
it was now that Laval, half mad with grief, 
remembered the sinister augury of the strange 
knight, and ran out of the chateau to call him to 
his aid. Already, in the castle, an officer called 
over the names of the prisoners, already were 
the coffers empty, the gold piled up in heaps, 
when Laval returned with the stranger. 44 Now, 
say to the constable what you have to say 
to him,” murmured Laval in the ear of the knight, 
whilst the prince conversed familiarly with Du- 
guesclin ; 44 and, since you have such power, magic 
or natural, persuade him to take for himself the 
ransom money-, instead of giving it to the 
others.” ' 

The stranger started. He made a step or two 
in advance, and his golden spurs echoed on the 
flag stones. The prince turned round at the 
sound. 

“Who is this knight?” demanded the governor. 

“One of my companions,” said Laval. 

44 Let him raise his visor then, and be welcome,” 
interrupted the prince. 

44 Seigneur,” said, the stranger, in a voice that 
made Duguesclin start in his turn, 44 1 have made 
a vow to preserve my face covered; permit me to 
accomplish it.” 

44 Be it it so, seigneur knight; but you do not 
mean to remain a stranger to the constable?” 

44 For him as for all, seigneur.” 

44 In that case,” exclaimed the governor, 44 you 
will have to leave the castle, into which I have 
orders to allow no one to enter but persons who 
are known to me.” The chevalier bowed, as 
if to show that he was ready to obey. 

44 The prisoners are free,” said Chandos, enter- 
ing the hall. 

“Adieu, Laval, adieu!” exclaimed the con- 
stable, with a heavy heart, which did not escape 
the sire, for he seized the hands of Bertrand, 
saying: - 44 For God’s sake ! it is still time,*' 
desist.” 

44 No! on my life, no! ’ replied the constable. 

44 Do you interfere with his honour to this 
point?” said the governor; “if he is not free to 
day, in a month he may be so; money is plentiful, 
opportunities of glory like this are not met with 
twice.’ The prince seemed to applaud, his 
captains imitated him. 

The strange knight immediate^ advanced 
gravely towards the governor, and in a majestic 
voice: — 44 ’Tis yourself, Sire Governor, who sullies 
the honour of your master, by allowing him to do 
what he does.” . | 

44 What say you, messire?” exclaimed the 
governor, turning pale; “ you insult tne; I tarnish 
the honour of monseigneur? By the death, you 
have lied!” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


195 


“ Throw* not your gauntlet without knowing 
if it is worthy my picking up, messire; I speak 
aloud and the truth; his highness the Prince of 
Wales acts against his glory by retaining 
Dugueselin in this chateau.” 

“ You lie! you lie!” cried the irritated voices, at 
the same time that the swords leaped from their 
scabbards. 

The prince was pale like the others, so rude 
and unjust did the attack appear: Who then,” 

he said, “dictates to me here? Is it a king, by 
chance, to talk thus to a king’s son? The con- 
stab]fc,ean pay his ransom and leave. If he does 
notpayMie remains, that’s all — why these hostile 

TraRRK’ange knight appeared not in the least 
disconcerted. “ Monseigneur,” he added ; “ this is 
what 1 have heard along my road: — ‘They will 
give the ransom for the constable, but the English 
fear him too much to set him at liberty.’ ” 

“Holy God! they say this?” murmured the 
prince. 

“ Everywhere, monseigneur.” 

“You see that they are wrong, since the con- 
stable is free to depart. Is it not true, con- 
stable?” 

“ It’s true, monseigneur,” replied Bertrand, 
whom a strange, inexpressible emotion agitated for 
,«ome moments. 

“ But,” said the governor, “ as the Sire Con- 
stable has disposed of the sum destined for his 
ransom, he must wait for a similar sum to arrive.” 

The prince remained thoughtful for an instant: 
— “No!” he said, at length, “the constable shall 
not wait — I fix his ransom at a hundred livres.” 

A murmur of admiration circulated throughout 
the assembly. 

Bertrand was on the point of exclaiming, but 
the strange knight placed himself between him 
anfl thi» prince: — “Thank God!” he said, arrest- 
ing his hand, France can pay twice for her con- 
stable; Dugueselin must be under an obligation to 
no one; in this rouleau are bills on the Lombard 
Agosti of Bordeaux; they amount to eighty thou- 
sand florins, payable at sight; I will myself 
count the sum, which shall be here within two 
hours.” 

“And I,” interrupted the prince, in a rage, “tell 
you that the constable shall quit the castle on 
paying a hundred li'vres, or he shall not quit at 
all! If Messire Bertrand thinks it an insult to be 
my friend, let him say so! I remember, how- 
ever, that he one day declared I was as good a 
knight as himself.” 

“ Oh! monseigneur^ exclaimed the constable, 
kneeling before the Prince of Wales, “ I accept 
with so much gratitude, that to pay the hundred 
livres, I will borrow of the captains.” 

Chanaos ana the other officers eagerly offered 
him their purses; he then carried the hundred 
livres to the prince, who embraced him, saying: 
— “ You are free, Messire Bertrand. Let the 
doors be opened, and let it be no longer said that 
the Prince of Wales fears any one in the world.” 

The governor, bewildered, had the, ordpr re- 
peated to him; the unlucky man had so badly 
played, that instead of one solitary prisoner, he 
lost a whole army with the captain. 

Whilst the prince questioned his officers and 
Laval himself, respecting the mysterious author of 
this coup d'etat, the stranger approached Du- 
guesclin, and said to him quietly:— “A false 
generosity kept you a prisoner, a false generosity 
liberates you. You are now free; adieu, we meet 
again this day fortnight in Toledo.” And bowing 


lowly to the Prince of Wales, leaving Bertrand 
stupified, he disappeared. 

“An hour afterwards, the constable, free and 
joyous, traversed the town in triumph with his 
Bretons, whose acclamations might have reached 
to heaven. One single person, perhaps, did "hot 
join in the cortege that followed Dugueselin in his 
oration. This was one of the officers of the 
Prince of Wales, one of those chiefs of the great 
companies whom they called captains, and who 
had a voice in the councils, though their opinion 
went for nothing. It was, in fact, an individual 
of our acquaintance, with his vizor always closed, 
who, having entered Bertrand’s room with Chan- 
dos, had been struck with th^ voice of the un- 
known knight, and had not lost sight of him for a 
moment. Thus scarcely had the knight dis- 
appeared, than the captain assembled some of his 
men, made them mount their horses to discover 
the trace of the fugitive, and himself, having ob- 
tained information, hastened on the road to Spain. 


CHAPTER LXH. 

THE POLICY OF MUSARON. 

Agenor, however, urged by the inextinguishable 
anxiety of the lover who can obtain no news; 
Agenor, we say, advanced at a rapid pace towards 
the states of Don Pedro. In his way, he rallied, 
thanks to a certain reputation he had acquired by 
his journey to France, the Bretons, who, after the 
ransom paid, were seeking Dugueselin to fight 
under him. He thus encountered many Spanish 
knights, who were hastening to the rendezvous 
fixed by Don Henry de Transtamara, who, they 
said, was to re-enter Spain and commence open- 
ing negociations with the Prince of Wales, dis- 
satisfied with Don Pedro. Every time he slept at 
a town or a village of any importance, Agenor 
made enquiries about Hafiz and Gildaz, and 
Maria de Padilla, and asked if they had not seen 
pass a courier seeking a Frenchman, or a young 
and handsome Moresca followed by two atten- 
dants, and hastening to the French frontier. 
Every time, also, that a negative reply reached his 
ear, the young man buried, with greater excite- 
ment, his spurs in his horse’s flanks. And Mu- 
saron said, in his dry philosophical tone: -“ Sir, 
you must really be in love with this young woman, 
for she costs us a deal of trouble.” By force of 
marching, Agenor gained ground; by force of 
enquiries he became resigned. Twenty leagues 
still separated him from the court of Burgos. lie 
knew that an army, very devoted, very warlike, 
very fresh, and, consequently, dangerous for Don 
Pedro, only awaited the signal to rally itself, and 
oppose to the conqueror of Navarrete a new' 
hydra’s head, more biting, more venomous than 
ever. Agenor demanded of himself, and demand- 
ed of Musaron, if it would not be proper, before 
continuing any political negociation, to enter 
upon the .amorous negociations with Maria de 
Padilla. Musaron 'admitted that diplomacy was 
good, but he maintained that by taking Don 
Pedro, Maria, Moihril and Spain, they would take 
Burgos, in which Burgos they could not fail to 
take Aissa, if she was still there.. This greatly 
consoled Agenor, and he made a few more 
leagues. Thus became diminished by degrees, 
the circle destined to stifle Don Pedro, whom 
prosperity blinded, the intrigues of his favourites 
occupied with futilities, at a time when his throne 
was in daitger. 

Musaron, the most conceited of men, especially 


196 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


since he considered himself rich, would not suffer 
his master to adventure once to push towards 
Burgos, shut himself up in it, and corner with 
Donna Maria. He to ik advantage, on the con- 
trary, of his want of spirits and his amorous 
negligences, to retain him in the midst of the 
Bretons and partizans of Transtamara, so that 
the young knight was soon chief of a considerable 
force, as much owing to his mission to France, as 
by his assiduity in nourishing the element of war. 
He received the' arrivals, kept open house, corre- 
sponded with the constable, with his brother 
Oliver, who was preparing to pass five thousand 
Bretons beyond the frontier, to support his brother, 
and assist him ^gaining his first battle. Mu- 
saron became a tactitian ; he passed whole days 
in writing out plans of battles, and calcul i ting 
the number of crowns that Caverley might have 
amassed since the last affair, that he might have 
the satisfaction of not deceiving himself the first 
time they fought. 

It was in these warlike dispositions, that impor- 
tant news arrived to Agenor; despite the vigi- 
lance of Musaron, an expert emissary announced 
to Agenor the departure of Don Pedro for a 
country seat, and the disappearance of Aissa 
and Maria, coinciding with the journey of the 
king. The same courier knew that Giidaz had 
died on his road, and that Hafiz alone had re- 
appeared at Donna Maria’s. Agenor, to learn so 
many things, and such important ones, had only 
occasion to give thirty crowns to a countryman 
who had spoken with Maria’s nurse, the mother 
of poor Giidaz. 

Thus, when Agenor learnt these facts, despite 
Musaron, despite his military companions, despite 
all, he threw himself on the best horse, which he 
made take the road to the chateau which Don 
Pedro had chosen for a residence. Musaron 
cursed and swore, but he also departed for the 
chateau. 


CHAPTER LX III. 

HOW THE CRIME OF MOTHRIL HAPPILY SUCCEEDED. 

At the chateau of Don Pedro, mourning and 
grief became more terrible and more loud when 
day break lighted the apartment of Donna Maria. 

Don Pedro had been unable to repose, his 
attendants pretended they had heard him weep. 

Mothril had consumed the night in a way more 
advantageous to his interests; he had so contrived 
as to destroy the least vestige of his crime. Left 
alone with Aissa, bestowing on her the tenderest 
care, with the skill of the most able surgeon, he 
had, from the commencement of his interview 
with her, moulded, like soft wax, the still hover- 
ing spirit of the young girl. Thus, when A’issa 
had uttered a cry on beholding the corpse of 
Donna Maria, Mothril had feigned to feel an in- 
voluntary horror, and had thrown a cloak over the 
inanimate remains of the king’s mistress. And 
as Aissa regarded it with terror: -“Poor child,” 
murmured Mothril, “ return thanks to God, who 
lias saved you!” 

“ Saved me?” said the young girl. 

“ From a frightful death, yes, dear child.” 

“ Who then struck me?” 

“ She, whose hand still grasps your poignard.” 

“Donna Maria! her, so good, so generous; 
impossible !” 

Mothril smiled w r ith that disdainful compassion 
which always imposes on minds struck with some 
gflfcat interest: — “The mistress of the king, 


generous and good for Aissa, ^hom the king 
adores; you cannot believe it, my child?” 

“But,” said Aissa, “since she wished to send 
me away.” 

“ To unite you, she said, to this French knight, 
eh ?” said the Moor, in his still calm and benevo- 
lent tone. 

Aissa drew herself up, quite pale, at finding 
the secret of her love in the hands of a man 
most interested in thwarting it. 

“Fear nothing,” continued the Moor; “that 
which Maria could not do, from jealousy and love 
of the king, I will do myself. A'issa^^u love, 
you say; well, I promise to assist yodf provided* 
that the daughter of my kings lives, andMives 
happy, I desire nothing more on earth.^H 

Aissa, petrified at hearing Mothril spe^^m this 
way, could not help regarding him with eyes still 
weary with the sleep ofdeath : — “ He deceives me,” 
she said. Then, thinking of the corpse of Donna 
Maria — “Donna Maria is dead! ’she repeated wildly. 

“ And listen to the cause, my dear child; the king 
loves you passionately, and he declared so yester- 
day to Donna Maria— the latter entered her 
apartment mad with rage and jealousy. Don 
Pedro proposed to unite you to him by the ties of 
marriage, which had always been the ambition of 
Donna Maria. She then renounced life, she 
emptied her ring into the silver cup, and, that she 
might not leave you behind her triumphant, and 
a queen, to avenge herself at the same time of 
Don Pedro and of myself who so doats on you, 
on many grounds, she took your poignard and 
struck you.” 

“ During my sleep, then, for I remember 
nothing,” said Aissa, “ a cloud obscured my sight; 

1 heard something like a heavy fall and stifled 
rattle — I think 1 rose up, that 1 felt some hands 
on my own, and immediately the thrust of the 
cold steel.” 

“ It was the last effort of your enemy, she fell 
near you; but the poison was ^stronger for her 
than the poignard for you — I discovered in you a 
spark of life, 1 reanimated it, I have had the happi- 
ness of saving you.” 

“ Oh ! Maria, Maria,” murmured the young girl, 
“you w r ere kind, however.” 

“ You say this because she favoured your love 
with Agenor de Mauleon, my child,” said Mothril 
to her quietly, and w ith a benevolence too affected 
not to conceal a smouldering fury ; because she 
introduced him ‘nto your apartment at Soria ” 

“You know ” 

“I know all; the king knows it as well— Maria 
' ad dishonoured you in the eyes of Don Pedro 
^etore assassinating you. But she feared that the 
calumny would not find i-ts way into the mind of 
Don Pedro, and that he would pardon you ffir 
having belonged to another; we are so indulgent 
wh. n we love! — so that she employed the steel to 
cut you off from the world of the living.” 

“The king knows that Agenor ” 

“ The king is mad with love and anger; the 
king, who had already bribed Hafiz to conduct 
you to the chateau, when 1 was ignorant of all; 
the king I say, w r ill wait for your recovery, to 
again draw you towards him — ’tis excusable, my 
child; he loves you.” 

“ When that time comes, I will die,” said Aissa, 
“for my hand will net tremble, will not slide from 
my bosom as that of Donna Maria has done.” 

“ You die! you, iny idol! you, my adored child!” 
exclaimed the Moor, falling on his knees No, 
you shall live, I have told you so, happy, and 
ever blessing my name.” 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


197 


“ Without Agenor, I will not live." 

“ He is >f a different religion from yours, my 
child.’* 

“ I will embrace his religion.” 

“ He hates me.” 

“ He will pardon you, when he no longer sees 
you between him and me. Besides, what matters 
it to me? — I love! I know none in the world jut 
the object of my love.” 

“ Not even Iiim who has saved you for your 
lover?” said Mothril, humbly, with an affected 
grief that deeply touched the heart of the young 
sacrifice me, even when I expose rny- 
^n8jHfi>r you!” 

‘MfeJUly, Aissa; you would live with Don 
Ag^PSPl will lend you my assistance.” 

“You?” 

“I! Mothril; yes, Aissa.” 

“ You deceive me.” 

“Why?” 

“ Prove to me your sincerity.” 

“ ’Tis easy. You fear the king— well, I will 
prevent your seeing the king. Does this satisfy 
you?” 

“ Not entirely.” 

“ I understand, you wish to again see the 
Irenchman ?” 

• “ Above everything.” 

“Wait till you are in a condition to support 
the journey, I will conduct you to him; I will 
place my life in his hands.” 

“ But Maria also conducted me to him ” 

“ Certainly, she had an interest in ridding her- 
self of you, and she would, no doubt, have pre- 
ferred sparing herself a crime. In the sight of 
God, the day we shall appear at his tribunal, 
murder will be a heavy burden.” In pronouncing 
these terrible words, Mothril exhibited for a 
moment, on his pale visage, that suffering of the 
damned, which has neither cessation or hope in its 
tortures. 

“ Well! what will you do then?” continued 
Aissa. 

“ I will conceal you until such time as you have 
recovered; then, as I have told you, I will unite 
you to the Seigneur de Mauleon.” 

“ ’Tis all I ask ; by doing this, you will become 
for me a divine being. But the king?” 

“ Oh! he will oppose it with all his strength; if 
he penetrates our design — my death will be his 
best resource ; I dead, you will become an easy 
prey, Aissa.” 

“Or else forced to die.” 

“ Would you rather die than live with the 
Frenchman?” 

“ No! oh no! speak! speak ? ” 

“You must, dear child, if by chance Don 
Pedro comes to see you, to speak to you, to 
question you respecting Agenor de Mauleon, you 
must, I say, maintain boldly that Donna Maria lied 
in affirming that you loved the Frenchman, and 
especially that you have given him possession of 
your love. By this mode, the king will no longer’ 
distrust the Frenchman ; he will no longer surveil 
our conduct; he will leave us free and happy. You 
must also, and this, my child, is the most impor- 
tant, you must search yuur memory and find in 
it this:— Don- a Maria spoke to you before striking 
you; she told you, no doubt, to avow to the king 
your dishonour; that you refused, and that she 
then struck.” 

“ I remember nothing!” exclaimed Aissa, struck 
with fear, as any honest and innocent mind would 
h&’-e been at the exposure of this infernal theory 


of the Moor; “ I will remember nothing. Neither 
will I deny myTove for Mauleon. This love is 
the light of my religion! his name is the star 
that guides my life ! Proud of being his, I am so 
far from hiding it, that I would proclaim it before 
every king on earth; count not on me for such 
falsehoods. If Don Pedro speaks to me, I shall 
reply to him.” 

Mothril became pale. This last, this feeble 
obstacle rendered null the result of a murder; the 
simple obstinacy of a child bound hand and foot 
a man of vigor, who would have dragged a world 
in his train He foresaw that he must no longer 
insist. He had, however, done the work of Sysi- 
phus — he had rolled the rock to the summit of 
the mountain ; but the rock again slipped down. 
Mothril had neither time nor strength to recom- 
mence. “My child,” he said, “ you will act as 
you please, your interest, interpreted by your- 
self, in accordance with your heart, and with 
your caprice, is my only law. This is your wish 
— it is mine. Reply, then, to the king as you 
like. I know well that your avowal will cause 
my head to fall, for I have always proclaimed 
your innocence and your purity; I have never 
consented to allow a suspicion to rest upon you; 
let my head pay for my fault, that is, for your 
honour. Allah wills it — let his will be accom- 
plished.” 

“ I cannot tell a lie, however,” said Aissa. 
Besides, why should you allow the king to speak 
tome? Remove him — ’tis easy; could you not 
transport me to some secret place — conceal me, 
in fact? Are not my health and my wound suffi- 
cient pretext? In that I aid you by my very 
position. To lie! oh, never! Deny Agenor! 
never!” 

Mothril endeavoured, but in vain, to hide the 
joy, which the words of Aissa produced in his 
mind. Depart with A'issa — remove her for a time 
from the questions of Don Pedro, and thus allow 
to cool his rage, hatred, ' regrets — the remem- 
brance of Maria — gain a month — it was to gain 
all. Now this chance of safety was offered by 
Aissa herself — Mothril seized it eagerly. 

“ You wish it, my child,” he said, “ we will de- 
part. Have you any repugnance to the chateau 
of Montiel, of which the king has named me 
governor?” 

“ I have no repugnance but to the presence of 
Don Pedro. I M ill go where you wish.” 

Mothril kissed the hand and robe of Aissa, 
carried hergently in his arms to the adjoining room. 
He had the corpse of Donna Maria removed, and 
calling two women of his nation, upon uhose 
fidelity he could rely, he placed them with the 
young girl, commanding them, on their lives, not 
to speak to Aissa, nor to suffer anv one to address 
a word to her. All things thus arranged, he re- 
paired to the king, after composing his spirits ami 
his features. 

Don Pedro had just received several letters 
from the town. They announced to him that 
envoys from Brittany and from England had ap- 
peared in the neighbourhood; that reports of war 
circulated about; that the Prince of Wales drew 
closer round the new capital his cordon of warriors, 
to force, by the presence of an invincible army, 
his protege of Navarrete to pay the expenses of 
the war and discharge his gratitude. This news 
saddened Don Pedro, but did not discourage him. 
He sent for Mothril, who entered his royal cham- 
ber at the moment the desire of the 1 ; ng mani- 
fested itself. 

Aissa?’' said Don Pedro, anxiously. 


198 


THE TEON HAND ; OR -THE K NIGHT OF AfATILEON. 


“ Seigneur, her wound is dangerous, deep; we 
shall not save this victim.” 

“Again misfortune! 5 ' exclaimed Don Pedro. 
“ Oh! it is too much at once:— to lose Donna 
Maria who loved me so; Aissa whom I love to de- 
lirium; recommence a bloody, implacable war — ’tis 
too much, Mothril, too much for the heart of one 
man.” And Don Pedro showed to his minister 
the' advices sent by the governor of BurgoS and 
the neighbouring towns. 

“ My king, for a moment we must forget love,” 
said Mothril; “ we must prepare for war. 55 

“ The treasury is empty. 55 

“ A tax will refill it. Sign the tax I have asked 
of you.” 

“It must be so. May I see Aissa? 5 ’ 

“ Aissa is suspended like a flower on the preci- 
pice; a breath may launch her into eternity.” 

“ Has she spoken?” 

“ Yes, seigneur.” 

“ What has she said?” 

“ A few words that explain all. It appears 
that Donna Maria wished to force her to dishonour 
herself by an avowal to ruin her in your estima- 
tion. The courageous child refused, the jealous 
Donna Maria struck her.” 

“ Aissa says so?’ 5 

“ She will repeat it as soon as her strength is 
returned; but I fear that, in this world, her voice 
will not again be heard.” 

“My God!” said the king. 

“ One only remedy may save her. A tradition 
of my country promises life to the wounded per- 
son who at night, by the vapours of the new 
moon, gently touches the wound with a certain 
magic herb.” 

“ This herb must be procured, 5 said the king, 
with the fervour of superstition and of love. 

“It is not found in this country, seigneur; I 
have seen n ne but at Montiel,” 

“ At Montiel — send to Montiel, Mothril. 5 ’ 

“ I said, seigneur, that the wound must touch 
the herb whilst yet on its stem. Ah! ’tis a 
sovereign remedy. I would willingly carry Aissa 
to Montiel, but would she support the journey ?” 

Don Pedro replied: — “ She shall be carried as 
gently as the bird carries himself when he glides 
through the air, balanced on his two wings. Let 
her go, M >thrff, let her go; but you, remain 
with me.” 

“ ’Tis I alone, seigneur, who can recite the magic 
form during the operation.” 

“ Then I must remain alone?” 

“ No, seigneur, for, Aissa recovered, you shall 
come to Montiel, and you will quit her no 
more.” 

“ Yes, Mothril, yes, you are right — I will not 
again quit her; I shall thus be happy; and the 
body of Donna Maria, what is done with it? I 
trust the greatest honours are rendered to it.” 

“ I have heard it said, seigneur,’ 5 said Mothril, 
that in your religion the corpse of the suicide is 
denied sepulture, the church then, must remain 
ignorant of the suicide of Donna Maria.” 

“ Everyone must remain ignorant of it, Mo- 
thril.” 

“ But your attendants?’ 5 

“ I will say in open court that Donna Maria has 
died of fever; and when I have thus spoken, no 
one will raise their voice.” 

“ Blind, blind fool!” thought Mothril. 

“Thus, Mothril you depart with Aissa?” said 
Don Pedro. 

“This very evening, seigneur.” 

“ Myself will give my time to the obsequies of 


Donna Maria; I will sign the edict; I will make an 
appeal to my army, to my nobles; I will conjure 
the storm.” 

“ And I,” thought Mothril, “ will seek a shelter 
for myself.” 


CHAPTER LXIY. 

IIOW AGENOR DISCOVERED THAT HE HAD 
ARRIVED TOO LATE. 

Leaving soldiers, officers, and lovers of war, to 
lose themselves in projects, plans, and 
Agenor pursued his object, which was 60;.recoy^|j 
Aissa, his greatest wealth. Love beg^^^^^B*-^ 
dominate in him over ambition, even 1 
for, impatient to enter Spam, to obtair^Bpl^of 
Aissa, the young man had suffered, as we have 
seen, the envoyes of the King of France aiM those 
of the Count de Laval to reach Bordeaux, and pay 
the ransom which the constable had himself fixed - 
upon in a moment of heroic pride. Thus, as this 
page would be lost to our history, since it is 
wanting in that of Agenor, if we did not replace 
it by history itself, we are thus forced to say, in 
two words, that Guienne trembled with grief the 
day on which the Prince of Wales,»generous as 
ever, allowed to escape from Bordeaux his 
prisoner, ranoOmed by the gold of entire France. 4 
We shall add that the first care of Bertrand was 
to hasten to Paris to thank the king; the rest we 
shall see, if we do not already know it. Hence- 
forth we shall be, as to the constable, candid and 
impartial historians. Agenor, then, and his faith- 
ful Musaron took their way in rapid marches 
towards the enateau, in which Don Pedro had 
hoped to possess Aissa. Agenor comprehended 
that there was no time to be lost; he knew Don 
Pedro and Mothril too well to amuse himself with 
such hopes: — “Who knows,” he said to himself, 
“if Maria Padilla herself, from weakness, from 
fear, has not compromised with her dignity; 
whether an alliance with the Moor Mothril has 
not appeared to her more preferable to the 
chances of rupture with Don Pedro, and whether, 
playing the part of an indulgent spouse, the 
favourite does not shut her eyes to a caprice of 
her royal lover?” These thoughts made Agenor’s 
impetuous blood boil; he reasoned no longer but 
as one in love, that is, he talked nonsense with ail 
the appearances of good sense. On his way he 
distributed some smart blows with his . lance, 
which fell, some on the mule of Musaron, some on 
the back bone of the good squire; but the result 
was the same, shaken by the blow, Musaron shook 
his mule. They thus proceeded, with discourses, 
of which we shall extract the substance for the 
edification and amusement of our readers: — “ Look 
you, Musaron,” said Agenor, “ when I shall have 
conversed for an hour only with Donna Maria, I 
shall know all the present, and shall know how to 
act for the future.” 

“ But, sir, 5 ’ you will learn nothing at all, and 
you will finish by falling into the hands of that 
scoundrel of a Moor, who watches you like the 
spider does a fly.” 

“ You are always harping on the same thing, 
Musaron; do you suppose a Saracen is worth a 
Christian?” 

“A Saracen, when he has anything in his head, 
is as good as three Christians. ’Tis just as if you 
said: ‘ Is a woman worth a man? 5 Yet we see 
every day men subjugated and vanquished by 
women. Now do you know why. sir? Because 
the women always consider what they are about to 


TFTE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTGHT OF MAULEON. 


199 


Jo; whilst the men always neglect what they 

flight to think of.” 

“ You conclude ” 

“ That Donna Maria has been prevented, by 
rtOme intrigue of the Saracen, sending you Donna 
Aissa.” 

“ Well?” 

“Well! and that Mothril, who has found 
means of preventing Donna Maria sending you 
youi mistress, awaits you, well armed in mind 
and body; that he will trap you, like they do the 
larks in a meadow; that he will kill you, and that 
you whtigitot possess Aissa. * 

** iy|i|Keplied by a cry of rage, and spurred 
his horse. BTlius he arrived at the chateau, whose 
aspect, •^■nck him mournfully. Some spots are 
eloquHF, they speak a language Intelligible to 
choice minds. Agenor examined, by the first 
rays of the moon, the edifice that contained all his 
love, all his life. Whilst he contemplated, there 
was accomplishing in its mysterious and impene- 
trable recesses, that frightful assassination, the 
triumph of Mothril. Harassed with such a long 
journey, and of having learnt so little; certain of 
being henceforth face to face with the one he 
sought for, Agenor, after long hours spent in 
regarding the walls, reached, followed by Mu* 
saron, a small village, situated on the other side of 
the mountain; there, we know, lived some goat- 
herds; Agenor requested a shelter of them, for 
which he paid generously. He succeeded in 
procuring parchment and ink, and made Musaron 
write a letter to Donna Maria, a letter full of 
affectionate regrets, proofs of gratitude, but also 
containing doubts and disquietudes expressed 
with all the delicacy of French minds. Agenor, 
to be more certain of the success of the message, 
would gladly have charged Musaron with it; but 
the latter observed to his master, that, known by 
Mothril, he ran a much greater danger than a 
simple messenger taken from amongst the shep- 
herds of the mountain. Agenor listened to rea- 
son, and sent a shepherd with the letter. Him- 
self slept on two sheepskins, side by side with 
Musaron, and awaited patiently. But the sleep of 
lovers is like that of madmen, thieves, and the 
ambitious, it is easily interrupted. Two hours 
after lying down, Agenor was up, and on the side 
of the hill, from whence he could see the door of this 
chateau; although at a great distance, he watched 
the return of his messenger. His letter contained 
as follows:— “Noble lady, so generous, so devoted 
to the interests of two poor lovers, I am returned 
to Spain, like the dog who has broken his chain; 
of Ai'ssa, no news; for pity’s sake, inform me; I am 
at the village of Quebra, where your reply will 
bring me death or life. What has happened? 
What must 1 hope or fear?” 

The shepherd did not return. Suddenly the 
doors of the chateau were opened, Agenor felt 
his heart beat, but it was not the goatherd who 
came out. A long file of soldiers, women, and 
courtiers, issuing we know not whence, for the 
king had arrived at the chateau with a small 
retinue; a long cortege, in a word, followed a 
litter that contained a corpse; this was recog- 
nized from the black drapery that enclosed the 
litter. Agenor said to himself that the augury 
was sinister. He had scarcely formed this idea, 
when the doors were again closed: — “These are 
yery singular delays,” he said to Musaron, who 
tossed his head in sign of discontent : — “ Go, then, 
and obtain some information,” said Mauleon; and 
he seated himself on the opposite side of the 

hill, amongst the dry heath. 


A quarter of an hour had not elapsed when 
Musaron returned, bringing a soldier, who ap- 
peared to have required much pressing to come. 
“ I tell you,” cried Musaron, “that ’tis my 
master who will pay, and will pay generously.” • 

“ Who will pay what?” said Agenor. 

“ Seigneur, the news!” 

“ What news?” 

“ Seigneur, this soldier makes part of the es- 
cort which conducts’ the corpse to Burgps.” 

“Butin God’s name, what corpse?” 

“ Ah ! seigneur, ah ! my dear master, from 
another than me you would not have believed it, 
but from him, you will believe it, perhaps; the 
corpse conducted to Burgos is that of Donna 
Maria de Padilla!” 

Agenor uttered a cry of despair and doubt. 

“It’s true,” said the soldier, “and I am in 
haste to go and resume my rank in the escort.” 

“Misfortune! misfortune!” exclaimed Mauleon ; 
“ but Mothril is at the chateau?” 

“Ah! seigneur,” said the soldier, “Mothril 
has left for Montiel.” 

“Gone! he! with his litter?” 

“ Which contains the dying young girl, yes, 
seigneur.” 

“ The young girl, Aissa, dying! Oh ! Musaron, 
I am dead!” sighed the unhappy knight, falling 
back on the ground, as if ready dead, which terri- 
fied the good squire, but little accustomed to 
fainting fits on the part of his master. 

“ Seigneur knight, this is all I know,” said the 
soldier, “ and, moreover, only know it by chance; 
’twas I who, last night, raised the young girl, 
wounded with a poignard, and the Senora Maria 
poisoned.” 

“Oh! cursed night! oh! misfortune, misfor- 
tune!” repeated the young man, half mad; “ there, 
my friend, take these ten florins, as though you 
had not come to announce to me the misfortune of 1 
my life.” 

“ Thanks, Seigneur Knight, and adieu,” said 
the soldier, hastening away quickly through the 
dwarf brooms. 

Musaron, his hand over his eyes, was examin- 
ing the horizon. “ There, there, yonder, very 
distant,” he exclaimed, “ my dear seigneur, do 
you see those men, that litter that crosses the 
plain after the mountain? Do you see on horse- 
back, with his white cloak, the Saracen, our 
enemy?” 

“ Musaron, Musaron,” said the knight, revived 
by the fury of grief, “let us mount our horses, 
let us crush this miserable, and if Aissa must 
die, let me at least receive her last sigh.” 

Musaron permitted himself to place a hand on 
the shoulder of his master: Seigneur,” he said, 

“we never reason well on a very recent event; 
we are two, and they are twelve; we are tired, 
they are fresh; besides, they go to Montiel, we 
know it; we will rejoin them at Montiel. You 
see, dear seigneur, above all, we must know fro?n 
the bottom the history which the soldier was un- 
able to tell you; we must know why Donna Maria 
has died poisoned, and why Donna A'issa is 
wounded by a poignard.” 

“You are right, my faithful friend,” said Age- 
nor; “do with me as you like.” 

“ I will make of you a man triumphant and 
happy, my master.” 

Agenor shook his head in despair. Musaron 
knew there was no remedy for this malady but in 
great excitement of body and mind. He re- 
conducted his master to the camp, where already 
the Bretons and Spaniards, faithful to Trans a- 


200 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


mara, concealed themselves less, and openly 
avowed their projects, since the vague rumour 
had reached them of the liberation of Duguesclin, 
and especially since they saw their forces in- 
creasing daily. 

CHAPTER LXY. 

THE PILGRIMS. 

Within a few leagues of Toledo, on a sandy road, 
bordered by a wood of stunted pines, Agenor 
and his faithful Musaron were pacing along 
sorrowfully, at the decline of day, seeking a 
venta (or roadside inn) where they might repose 
for a moment their weary limbs, and have a hare 
cooked, which the arrow of Musaron had struck 
in her form. Suddenly they heard behind them, 
on the sand, a hasty movement; it _wa>' the 
gallop of a swift mule, who bore cn his robust 
loins a pilgrim, whose head was covered by a hat 
with wide brims, and still more so by a species of 
veil, fitted to the brim of this hat. The pilgrim 
gave the spur to his mule, and governed it like a 
man who knew the whole exercise of a perfect 
cavalier. The animal, of an excellent race, fled, 
rather than raced, over the sand, and disappeared 
so quickly from the sight of our travellers, that 
they could not distinguish the sound of his voice, 
which said to them in passing: — “ Vayan usiedes 
con. Dios (God be with you). 

Ten minutes had not elapsed, when Musaron 
heard another sound similar to the first; he turned 
round, and had only time to draw aside his own 
horse, and that of his master : four cavaliers ar- 
rived with the speed of lightning. One of them, 
the most advanced, the chief, was habited in the 
dress of a pilgrim, similar to the costume of the 
previous one, whom the travellers had seen pass; 
but, under this habit, the prudent pilgrim con- 
cealed an armour, the vizor ev< n was applied 
to the face, and it was a curious spectacle, 
malgre the night, to observe the face of a 
cavalier under a wide-brimmed hat. The stran- 
ger went up and smelt, as we may say, our 
two travellers, as a bloodhound would have 
done ; but Agenor had prudently lowered his hel- 
met, and placed his hand on his sword. Musaron 
kept himself on the defensive. 

“ Seigneur,” said, in bad Spanish, a hollow 
voice as from a well, “ have you not seen pass a 
companion of mine, a pilgrim like myself, mounted 
on a black mule, swift as the wind?” 

The sound of this voice disagreeably struck 
Agenor as a confused dream; but his duty was to 
reply ; he did so courteously. “ Seigneur Pilgrim, 
or Seigneur Knight,” he replied also in Spanish, 

1 “ the person of whom you speak has passed about 
ten minutes; he is mounted, indeed, on a mule so 
swift, that few horses in the world could follow 
him.” 

Musaron fancied he remarked that the voice of 
Agenor struck the pilgrim with some surprise, for 
he approached nearer and impudently “ This 
information is more precious to me,” he said, 
“ than you suppose, chevalier; it is given to me, 
also, with so good a grace, that I should be de- 
lighted to make acquaintance with him who gives 
it me. I see by your foreign accent that we both 
come from the north — ’tis a reason for our be- 
coming more intimate. Raise, then, if you please, 
your vizor, that I may have the honour of thank- 
ing you with uncovered face.’’ 

“ tJncover yourself, sir knight,” replied Mau- 
leon, who was more and more disagreeably 
affected by this voice and question. 


The pilgrim hesitated; he finished even by re- 
fusing in a way that showed how perfidious and 
interested had been his request; and, without 
adding a word, he made a sign to his companions, 
and continued at a gallop the road followed by 
the first pilgrim. 

“What an unpudent fellow!” said Musaron, 
when he had lost sight of him. 

“And a most villainous voice, Musaron; I have 
heard it in some unlucky moment I think.” 

“ I agree with you, seigneur, and if our horses 
were not so fatigued, we should do well to run 
after these droles, some matter of great c«®psity is 
about to take place.” * 

“ What matter to us, Musaron ?|§; replied 
Mauleon, like a man whom nothing fuSRgr^in- 
terests. “ We are going to Toledo, wliere our 
friends must be assembled. Toledo is near 
Montiel; this is all I know, all I wish to know.” 

f< At Toledo we shall have news of the con- 
stable,” said Musaron. 

“ Probably also of Don Henry de Transtamara,” 
said Agenor; “we shall receive orders, we shall 
become machines, automatons, the sole resource, 
the only consolation of men, who, having lost 
their soul, no longer Know what to say or what 
to do in life.” 

‘^There! there!” said Musaron, “there will 
always be plenty of time to despair — on the last 
day comes the victory, as a proverb of our 
country says.” 

“ Or death, eh? this is what you fear to add?” 

“ Well, seigneur, we can die but once.” 

“ Do you fancy that I feai V 

“Oh! monseigi.eur you do not fear enough, 
’tis this that pfu^oKes me.’’ 

Thus discoursing they reached the wished for 
venta. It was a lonely house, as are in Spain these 
shelters, these providential refuges, which travel- 
lers meet with, against the sun by day, against 
the frost at night; places ardently desired, and 
often as impassable as the oasis in the desert, 
because it is just possible to die of hunger, thirst, 
and fatigue, before encountering another. When 
Agenor and Musaron had put their horses in 
stable, or rather when the worthy squire had 
done it alone, Agenor observed in the lower hall 
of the venta , before a bright fire, and in the 
midst of the muleteers, buried in the most pro- 
found sleep, the two pilgrims, who, instead of con- 
versing, mutually turned their back to each 
other. 

“Ah! I thought they were companions,” said 
Agenor, surprised. 

The pilgrim with the veil buried himself 
deeper in his shadow when the two fresh travel- 
lers entered. 

As to the pilgrim with the vizor, he seemed to 
watch, with great curiosity, the moment when a 
corner of the veil of his pretended* 1 companion, 
might be raised. This moment did not arrive; 
silent, motionless, visibly annoyed, the mysterious 
personage finished, that he might not reply to 
his importunate intruder, by feigning a deep 
sleep. 

By degrees the muleteers repaired to the court 
and lay down under their mules wrapt in their 
cloaks; there remained at the fire only Mauleon, 
who had supped with his squire, and the two 
pilgrims, still occupied, the one in watching, the 
other in sleeping. The one with the vizor, com- 
menced a conversation with Agenor by some 
paltry excuses for the manner in which he had 
quitted him on the road. He then enquired of 
him if he would not soon retire to his room, wher» 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON 


201 



no doubt, he would sleep better than on the 
stool. Agenor, still masked, was about to per- 
sist in remaining, were it only to annoy the 
stranger, when the idea occurred to him that by 
remaining he would learn nothing. Evidently to 
him, the other pilgrim was not asleep, something, 
therefore, was about to take place between the two 
men, each of whom wished to be alone. Agenor 
lived in times and. in a country wherein curiosity 
frequently saved the lives of the curious. He 
feigned in hhT turn to retire to a chamber which 
the host showed him; but he stopped behind the 
door, which, sdid and massive, was still sufficiently 
ill -jointed to permit the sight to reach the tire. 
He was right, fotf a spectacle worth attention, was 
reserved to him. 

When the pilgrim with the vizor found him- 
self alone with the other, whom he supposed 
a>leep, he rose* up and made a lew steps in the 
hall lo try the intensity of this sleep. 


The slumbering pilgrim did not budge. 

The man with the vizor now approached hirr 
on the points of his toes, and stretched out hi» 
hand to lift the veil that hid from him the features 
ol the pilgrim. 

But before he had touched the veil, the 
pilgrim was on his legs, and in an angry tone; — 
“ VV'hat do you want?” he said, “and why do you 
disturb my sleep?” 

“ Which is not very profound, seigneur pilgrim, 
veiled,” said the other, in a tone of raillery. 

“ But which ought to be respected, messire the 
curious, with the iron visage.” 

“ You have good motives, no doubt, for its not 
being known whether yours is of iron or of flesh, 
seigneur pilgrim.” 

“ My motives regard no one, and if I ve 1 my- 
self, ’tis that I do not wish to be known, this is 
clear. - ””-* — 

“iSeigneur, I am very curious, and will see 


202 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


yaq,” said the man with the vizor, in the same 

Dantermg to~e. 

The pilgrim immediately raised his frock, and 
drawing a long poignard: — “You will see this 
first,” he replied. 

The man with the vizor now reflected a moment, 
he then drew the heavy bolts of the door behind 
which Agenor heard and saw. At the same time 
he opened a window looking into the road, and 
introduced by it his four men, completely armed, 
and cased in iron: — “ You see,” he now said to the 
pilgrim, “ that defence will be in vain, and even 
impossible, seigneur. Be good enough, then, 
simply, and to spare a life which I think very 
valuable, to answer me the following question.” 

The pilgrim, the poignard in his hand, trembled 
with rage and disquietude. 

“ Are you, or are you not,” said the aggressor, 
“ Don Henry de Transtamara?” 

The pilgrim started. “ To such a question, put 
in this form, and with such preliminaries,” he 
replied, “I ought not to reply, if I am the person 
you say, without expecting death. I shall, there- 
fore, defend my life, for I am really the prince 
whose name you have pronounced.” And by a 
majestic movement he uncovered his noble features. 

“The prince!” cried Mauleon, behind the door 
which he endeavoured to burst open. 

“Him!” cried the man in the vizor, with a 
ferocious joy, “ I was quite sure of it, companions, 
we have followed him long enough; from Bor- 
deaux, is some distance. Oh! sheath your poignard, 
my prince, we have no intention of killing you, 
but of setting you at ransom. Body of Saints! 
we shall be accommodating; sheath, sheath! 

Agenor struck with redoubled blows against 
the door to burst it — but the oak resisted. 

“Pass to that door, to confine the one who is 
knocking,” said the man with the vizor to his 
followers, “ and leave me to persuade the prince.” 

“Brigand!” said Henry, contemptuously, “you 
would deliver me to my brother?” 

“If he pays me handsomer than you, yes!” 

“ I said rightly, that it was better to die here,” 
exclaimed the prince; “ Help! help!” 

“Oh! seigneur,” exclaimed the bandit, “we 
shall be compelled to kill you; your head will pay 
us less, perhaps, than your entire and living body, 
but still w'e must be content with it. We will 
carry your head to Don Pedro.” 

“’Tis what we shall see!” exclaimed Agenor, 
who, by a supreme effort, had burst open the door, 
and fell wit]| repeated blows on the four men of 
the brigand. 

“ The result of this will be, that we shall kill 
him,” said the latter, drawing his sword to attack 
Henry. “You have there a very blundering 
friend; order him, therefore, to remain quiet.” But 
the bandit had not finished, when a third pilgrim, 
whom they had not expected, entered from with- 
out This one wore neither mask nor veil; he 
thought himself sufficiently h°Vted, sufficiently 
covered by the dress of a pilgrim. His wade 
shoulders, his enormous arms, his square and in- 
telligent head, announced a vigorous and intrepid 
champion. He appeared on the threshold of the 
door, and contemplated with astonishment, but 
without rage or fear, this confusion in the room of 
the hostelry. “ They are fighting here,” he said. 
a Holloa! Christians, who is right, and who is 
wrong?” and his manly and imperious voice rose 
above the tumult as that of the lion rises above 
the tempests in the gorges of the east. 

The attitude of the combatants at the mere 
ouud of this voice was singular.- 


I The prince uttered a cry of joy and surprise; tn$ 
man with the vizor recoiled in terror. Mus&ron 
exclaimed: — “On my life, ’tis M. the Constable! 

“ Constable! constable!” said the prince, “ help 
they would assassinate me !” 

“You, my prince!” roared Duguesclin, tearing 
off his robe to allow his movements more freedom, 
“and who, pray?” 

“ Friends!” said the brigand to his myrmidons, 
“ We must kill these men or die here. We are 
armed, they are not; the devil yields them to us; 
instead of a hundred thousand florins, it is two 
thousand that await us. Forward!” 

The constable, with incomparable cooli|ess, ex- 
tended his arm before the brigand had finished his 
sentence; he seized him by the throat as^Bilv as 
he would a sheep, and threw him heaviljjron the 
floor; then wresting from him his sword: — I am 
now armed!” he said, “three against three; come 
my gentlemen of night!” 

“ W e are lost,” murmured the companions of 
the bandit, flying through the still open window* 

Agenor, however, had rushed forward, he undid 
the vizor of the defeated brigand and exclaimed: - 
“ Caverley ! 1 guessed as much.” 

“ He is a venomous beast, whom we must crush 
here,” said the constable. 

“ I undertake it,” said Musaron, ready to cut his 
throat with the knife at his belt. 

“Mercy!” murmured the brigand, “mercy! 
abuse not your victory.” 

“ Yes,” said the prince, embracing Duguesclin 
in a transport of joy; “yes, mercy, we have too 
many thanks to render to God, who has assembled 
us here, to trouble ourselves about this miserable; 
let him live, and get himself hanged elsewhere!” 

Caverley, in the effusion of his gratitude, kissed 
the feet of the generous prince. 

“Let him fly, then!” said Duguesclin. 

“ Go, bandit,” grumbled Musaron, opening the 
door to him. 

Caverley did not wait to be told twice; he ran 
so nimbly, that the horses wo-uld not have 
overtaken him had the prince changed his mind. 

After mutually congratulating each other, the 
prince, the constable, and Agenor, conversed 
about the events of the approaching war. 

“You see,” said the constable, “ that I am punc- 
tual at the rendezvous, I was going to Toledo, as 
you enjoined me at Bordeaux. You reckon on 
Toledo, then?” 

“I have great hopes,” said the prince, “if 
Toledo open its doors to me.” 

“ But this is not certain,” replied the constable. 
“ Since I have travelled under this dress, that is, 
for four days, I know more than I have learnt for 
two years. These Toledans hold with Don 
Pedro. We should have to besiege it.” 

“ Dear constable, expose you to suen dangers .n 
my account!” 

“Dear sire, I have but one word to say; I have 
promised that you shall reign in Castile; it shall 
be so, or I will die. And, besides, I have my 
revenge to take. Thus, scarcely by your presence 
of mind have you liberated me from Bordeaux, 
than in ten days 1 have seen King Charles and 
regained the frontier. Eight days have I followed 
your traces through Spain; for my brother Oliver 
and the Begue de Yilaines had received advice 
that you had passed through Burgos, on your way 
to Toledo.” 

“ It’s true, I passed through it; I await under 
Toledo the great officers of my army. I only 
disguised myself at Bur<ros.” 

“And they also, monseiguenr, and the same 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


203 




'idea occurred to me. The chiefs, in this way, 
$ass unperceived to prepare the lodging's of the 
soldiers. Ihe dress of the pilgrim is fashionable; 
every one at present seems willing to make a 
pilgrimage to Spain; so much so, that this 
rogue of a Caverley had assumed the dress with 
us. Now, here we are united. You will choose 
a residence, and draw round you all the Spaniards 
of your party; I, all the knights and soldi* rs of 
all countries. Let us lose no time. Don Pedro 
still floats; he has lost his best adviser, Donna 
Maria, the only creature who loved him in this 
world. Let us profit by his stupor, let us give 
him battle before he has time to recover him- 
self. 

“DfflHln Maria dead!” said Henry; “are they 
sure oFTt?” 

“ I am sure of it myself,” replied Agenor, 
sorrowfully ; “ I saw her body pass ” 

“ And what is Don Pedro doing?” 

“It is not known. He has had interred at 
Burgos the poor woman, his victim, he then dis- 
appeared.” 

“Disappeared! Is it possible? But you say 
that Donna Maria is his victim; narrate this to 
me, constable, I have not spoken to a living soul 
these eight days.” 

“This is what happened,” said the constable: 
“my spies gave me the information; Don Pedro 
loved a Moresca, the daughter of that cursed 
Moor; Donna Maria suspected it, she even dis- 
covered a correspondence between the king and 
the Moresca; incensed beyond measure, she 
poisoned herself after having pierced the heart 
of her rival.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Agenor; “oh! this is not 
possible, seigneur. It would be a crime so odious, 
a treason so black, that the sun would recoil with 
horror from it!” 

The prince and the constable regarded with 
astonishment the young man who thus expressed 
himself; but they could obtain no explanation 
from him. 

“ Pardon me, messeigneurs,” said Agenor, hum- 
bly, “ I have a secret of youth, a sweet and bitter 
secret, the moiety of which Donna Maria carries 
to her tomb, and the other moiety of which I 
would religiously preserve.” 

“ In love, poor child!” said the constable. 

Agenor made no reply, except:^-“I am at the 
orders of your lordships, and ready to die in your 
service. 5 ’ 

“ I know,” said Henry, “ that you are a loyal 
and devoted man, an ingenious, an indefatigable 
aerviteur, so reckon on my gratitude; but tell us 
you know something about the loves of Don 
Pedro.” 

“I know all, seigneur, and if you command me 
to speak 55 

“Where might Don Pedro be at this moment? 
This is all we w*ish to know.’ 5 • 

“Messeigneurs,” said Agenor, “grant me a 
week, and I will reply to you for a certainty.” 

“A week!” said the prince, “ what think you of 
it, constable ?” 

“ I say, sire,” replied Bertrand, “ that the weak 
is necessary to us to organise our army and 
receive the reinforcements and the money from 
France. We, therefore, risk absolutely no- 
thing.” 

“ The more so, seigneur,” added Mauleon, 
“that if my project succeeds, you will have in 
your power Tie real cause, the real firebrand of 
the war, Don Pedro, whom I shall deliver to you 
with great joy.” 


“ He is right,’ 5 said the king, “ with the capture 
of one of us, finishes the war in Spain.” 

“Oh! not so, sire!” exclaimed the constable, “ I 
swear to you, that if you were made prisoner, 
which^ by God’s help, will not happen, I would 
! ursue, were you even cut to pieces, the punish- 
ment of that miscreant, Don Pedro, who slaugh- 
ters his prisoners in cold blood, and allies himself 
with infidels.’ 5 

“’Tis my advice, Bertrand,” said the prince; 
“trouble not yourself about me; if I were taken 
and killed, recover my body by victory, and place 
it inanimate on the throne of Castile; provided 
that the bastard, the traitor, the assassin, were 
lying at the foot of this throne, I declare myself 
happy and triumphant.” 

“ Sire, ’tis settled; now let us,” added the con- 
stable, “ set this young man at liberty.” 

“And a rendezvous?” said Mauleon. 

“ Before Toledo, which we shall invest.” 

“ In eight days?” 

“In eight days.’ 5 Henry tenderly embraced 
the young man, quite confused by such an honour. - A* . 

“ Let me alon e,” said the prince, “I wish to show 
you that "Having shared my misfortunes, you 
shall be authorised to share also my pros- ' c 
perity.” 

“And 1,” added the constable, “I, who am in- / 
debted to him for a part of the liberty I enjoy, 
promise to aid him with all my power the* day he 
may claim my assistance, for whatever it may be, 
wherever it may, and against whom it may be.” 

“Oh! seigneurs! seigneurs!” exclaimed Mau- 
leon, “ you overwhelm me with joy and pride. Two 
powerful princes to trea* me thus! Why, you 
represent for me, on this earth, God himself; you 
open heaven to me!’ 5 

“ You are worthy of it, Mauleon,” said the con- 
stable; “ are you in want of money?” 

“No! seigneur, no!’ 5 

“The plan you meditate will, however, cost 
you some expenses; who knows? — bribes!” 

“ Seignetfrs,” replied Mauleon, “ remember that 
I one day took the chest of that brigand Caverley: 
it contained the fortune of a king; it was too 
much, I lost it without regret. Since then, in 
France, I have received from the king a hundred 
livres, which is a treasure equally great, since it 
suffices for me.’ 5 

“ How well spoken!” murmured Musaron from # 
his corner, and the tears in his eyes. 

The prince heard him. “’Tis your squire?’ 5 he 
said. 

“A. brave and faithful follower,” replied 
Mauleon, “ who renders my life supportable, after 
hdving more than once saved it.” 

“ He shall be also rewarded. There, squire,” 
said the king, detaching from his robe one of the 
shells embroidered on the stuff, “take this, and 
the day you require anything, you or yours, what- 
ever generation it may, this shell, delivered into 
my hands, or in those of one of my descendants, 
shall be worth a fortune; go, good squire, go/’ 

Musaron knelt, his heart inflated, as if ready to 
burst. 

“ Now sire,” said the constable, “ let us profit 
by the night to reach the spot where your officers 
await you; we did wrong to let that Caverley free, 
he is capable of returning upon us with tripled 
forces, and taking us in earnest, were it only to 
prove to us that he has a spirit.” 

“ To horse, then,” said the prince. 

They armed themselves, and trusting to t ir 
courage and their strength, they reached a wood, 
where it became difficult to attack — impossible to 


204 THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


follow them. Agenor then dismounted and took 
leave of his two powerful protectors who wished 
him good luck and a successful journey. 

Musaron awaited the orders to direct the horses 
towards one of the four cardinal points; — “ Where 
are we going?” he said. 

“ToMotdiel; my hatred tells me that, sooner 
or later, we shall find Don Pedro there.” 

“ Au fait," said Musaron, “jealousy is good for 
something; it sees more things than there are. 
Well! to Montiel, then.” 


CHAPTER LXVI. 

THE CAVERN OF MONTIEL. 

And they departed rapidly. Agenor attained in 
two days the object of his mission and of his 
love. He arrived before Montiel, assisted by 
Musarwn, with such precautions, that no one could 
flatter themselves with having seen him in the 
country. But, bv force of taking these pre- 
cautions, they had dispensed with the advantage 
of information -who does not speak, can never 
learn. 

When Musaron saw Montiel, seated like a giant 
of granite on a foundation of rock, and lifting its 
head to the skies, whilst its feet seemed to bathe 
in the Tagus; when he had contemplated, by the 
lfght of the moon, the winding paths bristling 
with rock, the steps, cut in sharp angles, in such 
a way that, in ascending, one could not see twenty 
paces in advance, whilst, from the summit, the 
least sentinel could see every one mount, Musaron 
said to his master:— “ ’Tis a real vulture’s nest, 
my dear master, and, if the dove is shut up there, 
we shall never be enabled to take it.” 

In fact, Montiel was impregnable otherwise 
than by famine^and two men are not capable of 
investing a place of strength. 

“ What is important to know,” said Agenor, 
“is whether Mothril inhabits this den with Aissa; 
the condition of Aissa in the midst of our ene- 
mies; it is, in a word, the conduct of Don Pedro 
in the whole of this affair ” 

“We shall know it by patience,” replied Mu- 
saron; “ but we have only four days to be patient; 
reflect upon this, seigneur.” 

“ I shall wait until I have seen Aissa, or some- 
one who can speak to me of her.” 

“’Tis a complete hunt; but consider well, my 
master, whilst we are hunting in this chateau, a 
Mothril— a Hafiz — somewhere will send us from 
above a ball or an arrow that will nail us like 
frogs to the rock; the position is well chosen, 
really.” 

“ It’s true.” 

“ We must, therefore, use more ingenious means 
than usual: as to believing that Donna Aissa is 
in this den, I do believe it; I should doubt, know- 
ing Mothril, that he had shut her up in it. As to 
knowing whether Don Pedro is there, I think 
that, by waiting a couple of days, we shall make 
the discovery.” 

“Why?” 

“Because the chateau is sriiall, contains few 
provisions, cannot hold a garrison, and that, to 
renew the provisions necessary for so great a 
king, they must often leave it.” 

“ But where shall we lodge ourselves?” 

“We will not go far; I see from hence our 
affair.” 

** This cavern?” 

“ Is a crevice in the rock ; a spring rises from 
it; ’tis humid, but ’tis retired. No one comes 


here unless to drink or seek for water; we shall 
be hidden inside it, and we will catch the first 
that comes, and make him speak by promises or 
threats; in the meantime, we shall be at no ex- 
pense.” 

“ You are a brave and judicious companion, 
my Musaron.” 

“ Oh ! believe me, the king, Don Pedro, haa 
not. many councillors of my stamp. Do you 
accept the cavern?” 

“ You forget two things; our living, which we 
shall not find in this cavern, and our horses who 
will not enter it.” 

“It’s true, we don’t think of everything; I 
found the commencement, you find the 

“We will kill our horses and throw them into 
the Tagus below us.” 

“ Yes; but what shall we eat?” 

“ We will allow the person who goes for the 
provisions to depart, and, when he returns, we 
will attack him, and obtain provisions.” 

“Admirable!” said Musaron; “but those in 
the chuteau,. not finding their purveyor return, 
will suspect something.” 

“ What matter, if we get the information we 
require.” 

It was decided that the two plans should be 
followed; at the same time, at the moment of 
killing his horse with his mace, Agenor found his 
heart fail: Poor beast!” he said, “who has so 

well served me!” 

“ And who,” added Musaron, “ might yet still 
further serve us in case you should carry off 
Aissa from hence.” 

“You speak like an oracle; I will not kill my 
poor horse; go, Musaron, unbridle him, conceal 
the harness and equipment in the grotto; the 
animal may wander about without being known; 
he will easily find a living, more industrious in 
that wav than man; if he is seen, which is the 
worst that can happen, and to us as well, they 
will take him to the chateau; now, we shall still 
be in a condition to defend him, eh?” 

“ Yes, monseigneur.” 

Musaron unfastened the horse, took off the har- 
ness and hid it in the grotto, the floor of which w as 
of hard clay, over which, for greater salubrity, the 
good squire sprinkled some sand brought in bis 
cloak from the banks of the Tagus and some 
chopped heath. The night was consumed in these 
labours. Daybreak found our two adventurers in 
the deepest recess of their solitary asylum. A 
singular phenomenon struck their ears. By the 
sort of winding staircase, which from the base of 
the hill ascended to the summit of the chateau, 
they heard the voices of men walking on the plat- 
form. The voice, instead of simply ascending, as 
is the case, reverberated by whirling round the 
partitions of this pipe or winding flight of steps, 
and again sprung up like the noise from the funnel 
of a water spout. It resulted from this, that 
Agenor, from the recesses of his den, could hear 
a conversation at more than three hundred feet 
above his head. The first fortification was 
situated above the cistern. As far as this any 
one could arrive freely; but the country was so 
deserted and laid waste that, except the people of 
the chateau, none ventured into this labyrinth. 

Agenor and Musaron passed sorrowfully half 
their first day. They drank water, for they were 
very thirsty, but they could eat nothing, although 
their hunger was as great. Towards evening two 
Moors descended from the chateau. They brought 
a donkey to carry the provisions they calculated 
upon obtaining at the neighbouring hamlet, about 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNTOHT OP ATATTLEON. 


205 


a league distant. At the same time four slaves 
came from the hamlet with jai»s, for the purpose 
of filling them at the fountain. A conversation 
commenced between the Moors of the chateau and 
the slaves; but the dialect was so barbarous, that 
our two adventurers could not understand a word 
of it. The Moors left for the hamlet 'with the 
slaves, and returned two hours afterwards. Hun- 
ger is a bad counsellor. Musaron was for un- 
mercifully killing the poor devils, throwing them 
into the river, and seizing the provisions. 

“ It would be a cowardly murder that would in- 
terfere in the sight of Goa with the success of our 
lan,^aid Agenor; “ I have another stratagem,” 
e said; “ see how narrow the road is, and how 
blacIPthe night is. The ass with his panniers 
will have much difficulty to walk in the path along 
the rock. We have only to push him as he passes, 
he will roll to the bottom of the hill. Then in the 
night we will pick up what there remains in the 
way of provisions on the ground.” 

“ It’s true, and like a charitable Christian, mon- 
seigneur,” replied Musaron; “ but I was so hun- 
gry, that I had no mercy left.” 

As they said, so they performed, the four hands 
of the two adventurers gave so rough a shock to 
the little donkey when he passed, rubbing against 
the rock, that he slipped and fell on the steep de- 
clivity. The Moors uttered cries of rage and beat 
the poor animal, but had they repaired the dam- 
age they could not fill the empty panniers. 
They returned, therefore, disconsolately, the one 
to the hamlet with the wounded donkey, the other 
to the chateau with his lamentations. Our two 
hungry ones, however, rushed bravely amongst 
the briars and rocks and collected the bread, dry 
raisins, and leather bottles. They had at one 
blow obtained provisions for a week. With such 
a copious repast, they recovered hope and courage; 
and, let us, admit, they had need of it. In fact, 
for two other mortal days our vigilant sentinels 
observed nothing, heard nothing but the voice of 
Hafiz, who roamed about the platform lamenting 
his service, or the voice of Mothril giving orders, 
and the exercises of the soldiers; nothing an- 
nounced that the king was at Montiel. 

Musaron had the courage to issue forth at night 
into the neighbouring hamlet to pick up any infor- 
mation; no one could reply to him. Agenor ques- 
tioned on his side, he obtained not the slightest 
addition. When we begin to despair, time seems 
to double its flight. The position of our two spies 
wts critical; in the daytime they dared not show 
themselves ; at night they dared not leave, because 
during their absence some one might enter, and 
this some one might be the king. But when two 
days and a half had elapsed, Agenor was the first 
to lose courage. In the night of this second day, 
Mauleon returned from the hamlet, where he had 
emptied his purse without learning anything. He 
found Musaron in despair in the cavern, and tearing 
oft’ his hair by handfuls, though he had but little. 
On questioning the honest squire, lie learnt from 
him that, tired of resting alone in the grotto, he 
had fallen asleep; that during his sleep, something 
like a horseman had ascended to the chateau with- 
out Musaron having seen him; he had only 
heard the iron shoes of the horse or the mule. 

“ Shall we be unlucky?” exclaimed the 
squire. 

“ Do not despair — it cannot be the king. The 
people at the village know him to be at Toledo. 
Besides, he does not journey alone, and the noise 
of his suite would have awakened you. No, it is 
not the king; he will not come to Montiel. In- 


stead of losing our time here, let us go straight to 
Toledo.” 

“ You are right, my master, we have here no 
other good chance to hope for than U hear the voice 
of Donna Aissa. ’Tis very gracious, but the song 
of the bird is not the bird, as they say at Bearn.” 

“Let us execute quickly, Musaron; collect the 
harness of the horses; let us depart hence and 
en route.” 

“ I shall not be long at the work, Sire Chevalier; 
you cannot think how weary I am of this cavern.” 

“Come,” said Agenor; at the same moment, 
and as he rose up:— “ Chut!” he said to Musaron. 

“ What is it?” 

“ Silence, I tell you; I hear some one walking.” 

Agenor re-entered the grotto, and Musaron was 
so alarmed at the noise, that he drew his master 
towards him by the sleeve. In fact they dis- 
tinguished hasty steps in the path that led to the 
chateau. The night was dark, the two French- 
men hid themselves at the extremity of the cavern. 
Presently three men appeared in sight; they 
walked cautiously, and stooped under a madronio 
that they might not be seen from the citadel. 
Arrived within three paces of the spring, they 
stopped. They wore the costume of peasants, 
but all three had a hatchet and a knife. 

“ Certainly,” said one of them, “ he followed this 
path, here are the prints of his horse’s shoes on 
the sand.” 

“ Then we have lost him,” said another, with a 
sigh. “By the devil! we have been unfortunate 
lately.” 

“ You fly at too high game,” added the first. 

“Lesby, you reason like a blockhead; the cap* 
tain will tell you so.” 

“ But ” * 

“Be silent — a fat buck killed, will feed the 
hunter a fortnight. A dozen larks or a hare 
scarcely afford a meal.” 

“ Yes, but the lark or the hare is caught — 
rarely the deer or the wild boar.” 

“The fact is, we made a sad mess of it the 
other day, eh, captain?” 

The one thus designated uttered a deep sigh. 
It was his only reply. 

“ And then,” continued the obstinate Lesby, 

“ why change every moment the track and the 
prey? Let us stick to one and take him.” 

“Did you tuke him at the venta tn%, other 
night — the one we followed from Bordeaux?” 

“Hem!” said Musaron, in the ear of his 
master. 

“ Chut!” replied Mauleon, his ear on the 
ground. 

The man, whom his companions called captain, 
now drew himself up, and in an imperious voice: — 
“Be silent, both of you,” he said; “comment not 
on my orders. What have I promised you ? - ten 
thousand florins each. Provided you are paid 
them, what do you demand?” 

“ Nothing, captain, nothing.” 

“ Henry de Transtamara is worth a hundred 
thousand florins to Don Pedro; Don Pedro is 
worth as much to Henry de Transtamara. I 
thought myself able to take the one, I was 
deceived, I nearly left my skin in the lion’s den, 
you were witnesses of it. Well! as the lion saved 
my life, I ought from gratitude to take his enemy. 

I will take him. I will not deliver him to Don 
Henry for nothing, it’s true; but I will sell him, 
’tis all one, provided he has him. In this way we 
shall be all satisfied.” 

A grunt of satisfaction was the reply of the 
two myrmidons of this man. 


206 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


“ Why, God pardon me, ’tis that Caverley that 
I have there within reach of my hand,” whispered 
Musaron into his master’s ear. 

“Silence!” repeated Mauleon. 

Caverley, for it was really him, thus finished 
his profession of faith: “ Don Pedro has quitted 
Toledo, he is in this chateau. He is very brave, 
and as a measure of prudence he has made the 
journey alone. In fact, a man by himself is never 
remarked.” 

“ No,” said Lesby; “ but is taken.” 

“Ah! faith! we don’t foresee all,” replied 
Caverley. “Nov/ let us arrange our plan; you, 
Lesby, will rejoin Philipps, who holds the horses; 
you, Becker, will remain here with me. The 
king will not leave the chateau later than to- 
morrow, because he is expected at Toledo: we 
know it.” 

“ Well!” said Becker. 

“ When he passes, we will intercept him. He 
must distrust one thing.” 

“Which?” 

“ Why that he has not given orders to his 
Toledan cavaliers to come and meet him; we 
ought, therefore, to arrange matters here. Come, 
Lesby, you, who are a noted foxhunter, find us a 
good kennel in these rocks, we will hide ourselves 
in it.” 

“ Captain, 1 hear water handy, ’tis some spring, 
the springs generally cause a hole in the rock, you 
ought to find a cave about here.” 

“Ah, fa/ Why we are lost; they will enter 
here,” said Musaron, to whose lips Agenor applied 
his hand by way of a gag. 

“ Stay,” said Lesby, “ the grotto is there.” 

“Very well,” said Caverley. “Leave us, 
Lecby; go and rejoin Fhilipps, and let the horses 
be near here at daybreak.’’ 

Lesby disappeared, Caverley and Becker re- 
mained alone. “ See what it is to have imagina- 
tion,” said the bandit to his companion. “ I look 
like a land pirate, and I am the only politician 
who comprehends the situation. Two men dis- 
pute for a throne; let one be suppressed, the war 
is over; so that, acting as I do, I act like a Chris- 
tian, a philosopher; I spare the blood of men; 
I am virtuous, Becker, I am virtuous!” and the 
bandit set up a laugh, endeavouring to stifle 
his voige. “ Come,” said he, at length, “ let us 
enter the hole, follow me if you can, Becker, ’tis 
hide and seek.” 


CHAPTER LXVII. 

HOW CAVERLEY LOST HIS PURSE AND AGENOR 
HIS SWORD. 

The disposition of the cave was thus: — First, the 
spring, a crystal liquid falling from a vault of 
stone on the pebbles, in the middle of which it had 
dug a bed for itself; next, further in, a winding 
cave, to which you arrived by two natural steps. 
This cavern was dark in the day, and it needed 
the cunning of the fox to have discovered it at 
night. 

Caverley avoided the perpendicular dropping 
of the spring, and feeling his way, clambered up 
the steps. Becker, more ingenious, or more 
friendly to comfort, advanced towards the ex- 
tremity to find warmth and shelter. 

Agenor and Musaron heard them, felt them, 
almost saw them. 

Becker finished by placing himself, and he 
invited Caverley to do the same, saying to him; — 
“ Come, captain, acre is room for two.” 


Caverley allowed himself to be persuaded, and 
entered. But, as he did not walk without 
difficulty, he repeated, evidently in bad humour: 

— “ Room for two, ’tis very easy to say so,” and 
he stretched out his hands to prevent knocking 
his head against the stony vault or the rocky 
partitions. But, unluckily he encountered the leg 
of Musaron, and seized it, crying out to Becker: — 
“Becker, a body!” 

“No, by God!” exclaimed the valiant Musaron, 
squeezing his throat, “ ’tis a real living man, who 
will strangle you, my brave one.” Caverley, 
thrown back, floored , could not add a word; 
Musaron held him by the wrists and bound 
them with the girth of one of the horses. I 

Agenor had only to extend his hand to (to the 
same with Becker, half dead with superstitious 
terror. 

“ Now,” said Musaron, “ my dear captain, we 
will talk about ransom. Pay attention that we 
are many, that the slightest gesture or the least 
cry will draw on your body an infinite number 
of thrusts with a dagger.” 

“ I won’t budge an inch, I won’t speak a word,” 
murmured Caverley; “ but spare me!” 

“We must first of all take our precautions,” 
said Musaron, depriving Caverley, piece by piece, 
of his weapons, offensive and defensive, with the 
dexterity of a monkey peeling a walnut. This 
affair terminated, he did the san e to Becker. The 
weapons taken off, he passed to the escarcelle, or 
•large purse. His fingers alone showed any 
delicacy in this operation; his conscience offered 
no scruple ; belts well garnished, purses well filled, 
passed into the power of Musaron. 

“ You rifle too! you!” said Agenor to him. 

“ Sir, I take from them the means of injury.” 

- The first moment of fear having passed, Ca- 
verley demanded permission to offer a few obser- 
vations. 

“You may,” said Agenor, “ if you speak low.” 

“ Who are you?” said Caverley. 

“ Ah! that is a question, my dear,” replied 
Musaron, “ we shall not reply to it.” 

“ You have heard the whole of my conversa- 
tion with these men. ’ 

“ Without losing a single word.” 

“ The devil! you know my plan, then?” 

“ Like yourself.” 

“ Well, what will you do with me and my com- 
panion, Becker?” 

“ ’Tis very simple, we are in the service of Don 
Pedro, we shall give you up to Don Pedro, nar- 
rating what we know as to your intentions re- 
specting him.” 

“ ’Tis not charitable,” replied Caverley, who 
turned pale in the darkness. “ Don Pedro is cruel; 
he will make me suffer a thousand tortures; kill 
me at once, with one blow at my heart. ” 

“ We do not assassinate,” said Mauleon. 

“Yes, but Don Pedro will assassinate mt.” 
And a long silence of his captors informed Caver- 
ley that he had persuaded them, since they found 
no reply for him. Agenor consulted. The unex- 
pected appearance of Caverley had revealed to 
him the presence of Don Pedro at Montiel. This 
man had been the hound with unfailing scent that 
puts up the game for his master. This service 
rendered to Mauleon appeared to him important 
enough to urge him to clemency. Besides, his 
enemy was disarmed, rifled, deprived of the means 
of injuring. All these reflections were also made 
by Musaron. He was so accustomed to the 
thoughts of his master, that the same inspiration 
simultaneously rose up in their two minds But 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


207 


Caverley had made use of this silence, like a cun- 
ning and expert man as he was; he had reflected 
that since the commencement of the disagreeable 
conversation he had had with the strangers, two 
voices alone had spoken; by feeling about and 
turning himself round, he was convinced that the 
cave Avas narrow and incapable, in size, of holding 
more than four men. With the exception of wea- 
pons, therefore, the party was equal; but to ob- 
tain these arms he required the liberty of his 
hands, and his hands were tied. That mysterious 
providence that protects villains, and which is no 
other than the weakness of honest men — this 
providence, we say, came to the assistance of 
Caverley. “ This Caverley,” said Agenor to him- 
self, “ will greatly incommode me. In my place 
he would nd himself of the embarrassment by a 
thrust with a poignard, and throw my body into 
the Tagus; this is a step I would not employ. 
He will incommode me, I say, when I wish to leave 
this, and I should wish to leave it as soon as I 
have news of A'issa and Don Pedro.” This reflec- 
tion once made, Mauleon, who was expeditious, 
seized Caverley by the arm, and began untying 
him, saying; — “ Master Caverley, you have, un- 
knowingly, rendered me a service; yes, Don 
Pedro would kill you, and I would not that you 
should die thus, when there are so many handsome 
gibbets in England and France.” At each word 
the imprudent man untied a knot; “I give you 
liberty, therefore,” continued Mauleon, “ profit by 
it to fly and endeavour to correct yourself.” Upon 
which he finished untying the girth. 

Scarcely had Caverley his arms free, when 
falling upon Agenor, he attempted to seize his 
long sword, saying, “ With liberty, restore me my 
purse!” 

Already he held the steel — he fitted the guard 
to his hand to strike, when Mauleon struck him 
with his fist, which sent him rolling into the piece 
of water near the steps of the cave. Caverley like 
a fish , who escapes from the fisherman’s basket, 
again smells the ambient element in which he 
lives, breathed the air with delight, bounded out 
of the cavern, and ran with all haste towards the 
hamlet. 

“By Saint James! my master,” said Musaron, 
in a fury, “you have done a good job there; let 
me run and overtake him.” 

“Eh! what to do?” said Agenor, “since I 
wished him to have a clear stage?” 

“Madness — downright madness! the scoundrel 
will play us some trick; he will return — he will 
speak.” 

“ Hold your tongue, simpleton,” said Agenor, 
pushing the elbow of Musaron, that the latter, in 
his passion, might not commit himself before 
Becker; if he returns, we will deliver him to Don 
Pedro, whom we will apprize this very night.” 

“ That’s different,” grumbled Musaron, who un- 
derstood the ruse. 

“ Come, friend, untie the bonds of this honest 
M. Becker, end tell him that if Caverley, Lesby, 
Philipps, and Becker, those four illustrious cava 
liers, are still in the neighbourhood to-morrow, 
they shall be all hung from the battlements of 
Montiel; for, in these parts, the police is better 
managed than in France.” 

“ Oh ! I shall not forget that, seigneurs,” said 
Becker, drunk with joy and gratitude. 

This one never dreamt of turning against his 
benefactors. He kissed their hands and disap- 
peared as rapid as a bird. 

“Oh! my master,” sighed Musaron, “what 
adventures !" 


“ Oh ! sir squire,” said Agenor, “ what lessons 
you have to take before being accomplished! 
What! you do not see that this Caverley has un- 
kennelled Don Pedro for us; that, not knowing 
who we are, he will think we are the keepers of 
Don Pedro; that, consequently, he will quit the 
country all the quicker? Besides, what more 
could you do? you have the money and th© 
arms.” 

“ Sir, I was wrong.” 

“ Undoubtedly!” 

“ But let us watch, sir; let us watch. The devil 
and Caverley are very intimate.” 

“ A hundred men would not force us in this 
cave. We can sleep here alternately,” replied 
Mauleon, “ and thus wait for news from my dear 
mistress, since heaven has already sent us news of 
Don Pedro.” 

“ Sir, I no longer despair of anything, and if 
any one said to me: — ‘The Senora A'issa wall 
come down and visit you in this snake’s nest, 5 I 
should believe it, and would say, ‘ Thanks for 
your news, brave man.’ ” At this moment a light 
distant sound, but measured and cadenced, struck 
the practised ear of Musaron. “My faith,” said 
he, you were right; there is that Caverley at a 
gallop. I hear four horses, I’ll swear. He has 
rejoined his English, and they are all flying the 
gibbet which you seasoned them with— unless 
they come here. No, the sound recedes, it dies 
away; a prosperous journey — adieu, until next 
•time, captain of the devil!” 

“ Eh ! Musaron, 5 ’ exclaimed Mauleon, suddenly, 
“ I have lost my sword!” 

“ The scamp has robbed you of it,” said Mu* 
saron; “ 5 tis a pity, such a good blade!” 

“ With my name engrayed on the handle. Ai f 
Musaron, the brigand will recognize me!” 

“Not before the evening, Seigneur Knight; and 
by the evening he will be far enough, believe me, 
that damned Caverley, he must always steal 
something.” 

The next morning, at daybreak, they heard, 
descending from the chateau, two ;men, who con- 
versed earnestly; it was Mothril himself, and ths 
king, Don Pedro; the latter was leading his 
horse. At this sight, Agenor’s blood boiled. He 
was about to rush upon his enemies, to poignard 
them and terminate the struggle, but Musaron 
arrested him; — “Are you mad, seigneur?” he 
said; “what! you would kill Mothril before 
seeing A'issa? And, what tells you that, as at 
Navarre te, those who guard Aissa h We not orders 
to kill her if Mothril died, or you made him a 
prisoner?” 

Agenor trembled : - “ Oh ! you really love me,” 
he said, “ yes, you love me.” 

“I believe it, by the mass! you fancy that I 
should not be pleased t kill this villainous Moor, 
who has done so much harm? yes, I will kill him, 
but at the proper time, and may it be a good one!” 

They saw pass, within reach of their arm, these 
two objects of their legitimate hatred, and they 
were almost touched by them, without daring to 
lay a hand on them; - “Fortune trifles with us! 5 ’ 
exclaimed Agenor. 

“ Do vou complain, then, seigneur, 1 said Mu- 
sarcL ?cu. who, without Caverley, would have 
left yesterday — left, without knowing where Don 
Pedro was, without having news of Donna Aissa; 
but, chut! let us listen to them.” 

“ Thanks;” said Don Pedro to his minister, “I 
think she will recover, and will love me.” 

“Do not doubt it, seigneur; she will recover, 
because Hafiz and myself will gather, according 


208 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OE HAUL EON. 


to the prescribed ritual, the herbs you are aware 
of; she will then love you, because nothing will 
then displease hei at your court. But let us talk 
of serious matters; prove that the news is certain, 
ten thousand of mv countrymen should be landed 
at Lisbon, and ascend the Tagus as far as Toledo; 
go to Tbledo, where you are loved; encourage 
these faithful defenders. The day on which 
Henry enters Spain, we will take him at a single 
blow, him and his army, between the town he 
besieges and the Saracen army, your allies, at the 
head of which 1 will place myself when it is in 
sight of Toledo; the real, true, and infallible 
success is contained in this.” 

“ r Motbril, you are a clever minister; whatever 
happens, you have been devoted to me.’ 5 

“ What an ugly figure the Moor must make to 
appear gracious!” saidMusaron, inhismaster’s ears. 

“ Before I quit you to return to the chateau,” 
said Mothril, “ a last advice; refuse the Prince of 
Wales any payment of money, until he has sided 
with you; these English are perfidious.” 

“ Yes; and besides, the money fails.” 

“The greater reason. Adieu! seigneur, you 
are henceforth victorious and happy.” 

“Adieu! Mothril.” 

“ Adieu! seigneur.” 

The two adventurers were still to undergo the 
punishment of seeing Mothril slowly remount, 
who, with an infernal smile on his lips, regained 
the chateau, so ardently coveted by Agenor: — 
“Let us mount with him,” said the young man, 
“let us seize him alive; let us say that, if he does 
not deliver Aissa to us, we will kill him; he will 
yield her,” 

“ Yes, and on our road, when we descend, he 
will smash us with pieces of rock; we shall be 
much advanced. Patience, I tell you; God is 
good!” 

“Well! since you refuse all for Mothril, do 
not, at least, refuse the opportunity that offers for 
Don Pedro; he goes alone, we are two, let us 
take him, and slay him if he resists; or, if he 
does not resist, let us carry him to Don Henry de 
Transtamara, to prove that we have found him.” 

“Excellent idea! I adopt it;” exclaimed Mu- 
saron ; “ I follow you.” 

They waited until Mothril had reached the 
platform of the chateau, they then ventured to 
leave their hole. But when they plunged their 
regards over the plain, they saw Don Pedro at the 
head of a troop of at least forty men-at-arms. 
He pursued mis route peaceably towards Toledo: 
— “ Ah! by the mass, we were very stupid; pardon, 
seigneur, very credulous,” said Musaron, “ Moth- 
ril would not have allowed the king to depart 
thus alone; the guards came from the hamlet to 
meet him.” 

* “ Apprised by whom?” 

“Eh! by the Moors last night, or, even by a 
signal from the chateau.” 

“Very just; let us only think of seeing Aissa, 
if passible, or of returning to Don Henry,” 

OHAPTER LX VI II. 

HAFIZ. 

The opportunity hoped for, did not present itself 
for a whole day. No one left the chateau, except 
the purveyors. A messenger also arrived; bin 
the horn of the warder had signaled his arrival; 
our adventurers did not think it prudent to stop 
him. 

Towards the evening, when all became silent, 


when the sounds that ascend from the river to the 
mountain seemed themselves appeased, softened; 
when the sky, paled in the horizon, and the rock 
appeared less fresh, our two friends heard an 
animated conversation between two well-known 
voices. Mothril and Hafiz were quarrelling 
whilst descending from the platform of the 
chateau towards the path that led to the doors: — 
“ Master ” said Hafiz, “ you shut me up when the 
king was here, you promised to present me to 
him; you also promised me plenty of money. 
I am weary of being with this young girl, whom 
you force me to guard; I wish to be in the war 
with our countrymen who are returning from the 
country, and ascend the Tagus at this moment in 
the vessels with white sails; so pay me at once, 
master, and let me go to the king.” 

“You wish to quit me, my son?” said Mothril, 
“ am I a bad master to you?” 

“ No; but I will have no master at all.” 

“lean retain you,” said Mothril, “fori love you.” 

“But I do not love you; you have made me 
commit some base actions that people my sleep 
with frightful dreams; I am too young to deter- 
mine to live thus; pay me, and Jet me go free, or 
I will find some one to whom I will tell the whole.” 

“ Then you are right,” replied Mothril, “ re- 
mount to the chateau, I will pay you immediately.” 

As they descended, Hafiz was behind Mothril; 
the path was so narrow that, to remount, Hafiz 
was necessarily before, and Mothril behind. The 
owl commenced his mournful cry amongst the 
hollows of the rock, a frightful blasphemy pierced 
the air, and something heavy, faint, and bloody,, 
dropped, almost flattened, before the cavern where 
our two friends were attentively listening. They 
replied by a cry of terror to the cry of death. 
The night birds fled bewildered from the bosom 
of the creviced rocks, and the very insects hur- 
riedly escaped from their nests. Presently, a 
stream of blood reached the v/ater of the cistern, 
which it reddened. Agenor, pale and trembling, 
looked out of his hiding place, and the livid head 
of Musaron placed itself by the side of his 
master’s: — “ Hafiz!” they both exclaimed, on 
perceiving, about three paces distant, the motion- 
less body, in pieces, of the companion of Gildaz. 
“Poor boy!” murmured Musaron, who left his 
hole to aid him, if it were yet time. Already had 
the shadows of death invaded his bronzed face; 
his eyes dilated beyond measure, were lustreless* 
a heavjr breathing, mixed with blood, arrived 
painfully from the crushed chest of the Moor. 
He recognized Musaron, he recognized Agenor, 
and his features wore an expression of superstitious 
terror. In fact, the miserable youth fancied he 
heheld his avenging spectres. Musaron raised 
his head; Agenor brought him some fresh water 
to bathe his face and wounds: — “ The Frenchman! 
the Frenchman! ’ said Hafiz, drinking greedily; 
“Allah! pardon me!” 

“ Come with us, poor lad; we will recover you,” 
said Agenor. 

“No, I am dead— dead, like Gildaz,” murmured 
the Saracen, “ dead, as I have deserved, dead by 
assassination; Mothril has thrown me from the 
top of the battlement of the c hateau.” 

A movement of horror, escaped from Mauleon, 
was noticed by the dying boj “ Frenchman!” 
he said, “I have hated you; but I cease hating 
you to-day, for you can avenge me. Domia 
Aissa still loves you; Donna Maria also protected 
you. ’Twas Mothril who poisoned Maria; twas 
he who took advantage of the swoon of Aissa to 
strike her with a poignard; say this to the king 


THE TRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


209 



Jon Pedro, tell it to him quickly; but, save Aissa, 
if you love her, for, in fifteen days, when Don 
Pedro returns to the chateau, Mothril is to deliver 
to him A'issa, drugged by a potent drink. I have 
done vou injury, but I do you a service; pardon 
me, and avenge me; Allah!” He fell back ex- 
hausted, turned his eyes with a painful effort 
towards the chateau to curse it, and expired. 

For more than a quarter of an hour, the two 
friends could not succeed in collecting their ideas, 
or recovering their sang froid. d. his hideous death, 
this revelation, these future menaoes,^ had struck 
them with inexpressible terror. Agenor was the 
first to rise: - “ For a fortnight hence,’ he said, 
« we are at rest; in a fortnight, Don Pedro, Moth- 
ril, or I, will be dead. Come, Musaron, let us go 
to the camp of Henry, to render him an account 
of the mission I undertook. But let us hasten; 
seek our horses in the plain.” 

Musaron, bewildered) succeeded in finding the 

13 


horses, who, indeed, came at his call. He equipped 
them, loaded them, and, jumping lightly into the 
saddle, he took the road to Toledo, on which his 
master had already preceded him. 

When they reached the plain, and the sinister 
chateau stood up in bold relief, like a black mass 
against the grey blue sky: — “ Motliril!” cried 
Agenor, in an echoing voice, pointing with inis 
fist to the windows of the castle; “ Mothnl, to a 
speedy meeting! My love, I return!” 

CHAPTER LXIX. 

PREPARATIONS. 

Powder does not take ..fire with more rapidity, 
than revolt in the states of Don Pedro. •Without 
the fear of being invaded by the neighbouring 
I kingdoms, the inhabitants of Castile had, for the 
| mjost part, pronounced in favour of Henry, as soon 


210 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


&S a manifesto emanating from him informed Spain 
that he had returned wi'th an army, and that this 
army was commanded by the Constable Bertrand 
Duguesciin. In a few days, the roads were covered 
with soldiers of fortune, with devoted citizens, with 
religions of every order, and with Bretons, march- 
ing towards Toledo But Toledo, faithful to Don 
Pedro, as Bertrand had foreseen, shut its gates, 
armed its walls, and awaited the event. Henry 
lost no time; he invested the town, and com- 
menced a regular siege. This state of hostility 
served him admirably, for it gave time to his allies 
to rally under his standard. 

On the other side, Don Pedro multiplied him- 
self; he sent courier upon courier to the king of 
Grenada, the kingof Portugal, the king of Arraigon 
and Navarre, his ancient friends. He negotiated 
with the Prince of Wales, who, J1 at Bordeaux, 
seemed to have lost a little of his energy for war, 
and was preparing himself, by repose, for that 
cruel death which carried him off so young to a 
glorious eternity. The Saracens, announced by 
Mothril, were landed at Lisbon; they had taken 
a few days of rest, then, with the boats furnished 
them by the king of Portugal, they ascended the 
Tagus, preceded by three thousand horses sent to 
Don Pedro, on the part of his ally of Portugal. 
Henry had with him the towns of Gallicia and 
Leon, an homogeneous army, of which five thou- 
sand Bretons, commanded by Oliver Duguesciin, 
formed the powerful nucleus. He only waited 
for certain news from Mauleon, when the latter 
returned to the camp with his squire, and related 
what he had seen, and what he had done. The 
prince and Bertrand listened in profound silence. 

“What!” said the constable, “ Mothril is not 
gone with Don Pedro?” 

“He awaits the arrival of the Saracens, to put 
himself at their head.” 

“ We can send a hundred men to take him 
beforehand, at Montiel,” said Bertrand, “ Agenor 
shall command the expedition, and,. as I suppose 
he has no very strong reasons for loving this 
Mothril, he will erect a tall gibbet on the banks of 
the Tagus, and hang to this gibbet the Saracen, 
the assassin, the traitor.” 

“ Seigneur, seigneur,” said Agenor, “ you were 
kind enough to promise me your friendship, to 
promise me your assistance. Do not refuse me to- 
day; suffer, I entreat you, the Saracen Mothril 
to live calm, and without suspicion, in his chateau 
at Montiel.” 

“For what reason? ’tis a nest we must de- 
stroy.” 

“ Seigneur Constable, ’tis a den, that I know, 
and which will prove useful to you at another 
time. You know that when we wish t<? force the 
fox, we do not appear to notice his kennel, and 
pass before it without regarding it; otherwise, he 
quits it, and does not return.” 

“ Well? chevalier.” 

44 Seigneur, let Mothril and Don Pedro believe 
themselves unnoticed, and inviolable in the chateau 
of Montiel; who knows if we shall not take 
them by and bye at a single throw of the net?” 

“ Agenor,” said the king, “ this is not your only 
reason.” 

“ No, sire, and I have never uttered a falsehood; 
no, this is not my only reason. The true nne is, 
that this chateau contains a friend of mine, a friend 
whom, Mothril would despatch if he is pressed too 
close.” 

“ Speak, then !” exclaimed Bertrand, “ and never 
fear that we shall hesitate to grant what you 
desire.” 


After this conversation, which assured Mauleon 
as to the fate of AVssa; the chiefs of the ar my 
vigorously pressed the siege of Toledo. The 
inhabitants defended themselves so well, that it was 
the focus of many feats of arms, and many of the 
illustrious besiegers, amongst the expert, were 
killed or wounded in the skirmishes or sorties. 
But these combats, without results, were cnly the 
prelude to a general action, as the lightning and 
shock of clouds is the prelude of the tempest. 


CHAPTER LXX. 

Don Pedro had regulated in Toledo, a town of 
some defence, and numerous resources, all his 
affairs with his subjects* and allies. The Toledans 
had floated from one party to another in this in- 
terminable suite of civil wars; it was necessary to 
strike them a moral blow that would bind them 
for ever to the cause of the conqueror of Navarrete. 
.Here was the best title of Don Pedro; in fact, if 
the Toledans did not support their prince this 
time, and that in the first battle he was not a con- 
queror, as at Navarrete, there was an end of Toledo 
for ever, Don Pedro would never forgive it. This 
cunning man knew well that the population of a 
large town has no real impulse but hunger and 
avidity. Mothril repeated it to him daily. It was 
necessary then to feed the Toledans, and to let 
them hope for rich spoils. Don Pedro did not 
succeed in attaining the two results. He promised 
much for the future, but he performed nothing for 
the present. When the Toledans perceived that 
provisions failed in the market, that the granaries 
were empty, they began to murmur. A league 
of twenty rich indmduals, devoted to the Count de 
Transtamara, or simply animated with a spirit of 
opposition, fomented these murmurs and evil dis- 
positions of the town. Don Pedro consulted 
Mothril. 

“ These people,” replied the Moor, “ will play 
you the handsome trick of opening, whilst you are 
asleep, one of the gates of your town to your 
competitor. Ten thousand men will enter, will 
take you, and the war will be finished. 7 ’ 

“ What is to be done, then?” 

4 4 A very simple thing. In Spain they call you 
Don Pedro the Cruel.” 

“ I know it, and I only merit this title by some 
acts of justice a little energetic.” 

44 1 do not dispute it; but, if you have deserved 
this name, you must not fear to merit it again , if 
you have not merited it, hasten to justify it by 
some grand execution, that will teach the Toledans 
the strength of your arm.” 

44 Be it so,” replied the king. 44 1 will act this 
very night.” In fact, Don Pedro had the ill- 
disposed of whom we have spoken pointed out; he 
informed himself of their residences and their 
habits, and on this same night, with a hundred 
soldiers, whom he commanded in person, he forced 
the house of each of these factious, and had them 
assassinated. Their bodies were throw'n into 
the Tagus. A little nocturnal noise, much 
blood carefully washed away, this taught the 
Toledans what the king understood by practising 
justice and administering the town. They did 
not murmur, therefore, and set about eating, with 
great enthusiam, in the first place their horses. 
The king congratulated them upon it: — “You dc 
not require horses in the town,” he said; “the 
journeys are not long; as to the sorties on the 
besiegers, why, we will make them, on foot.” 
After their horses, the Toledans were compelled 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OP MAULEON. 


211 


to eat their mules. For Spaniards this is a cruel 
necessity; the mule is a national animal, they 
regard it almost as a compatriot. Certainly they 
sacrifice their horses to the corredas de toros ; but 
they charge the mules to collect in the arena the 
horses and bulls killed by each other. The 
Toledans thfen eat their mules with a sigh. 

Henry de Trans tamara let them alone. 

This execution of the mules raised the energy 
of the besieged ; they made a sortie to obtain pro- 
visions; but the Begue de Vilaines and Oliver de 
Manny, who had not eaten their Breton horses, 
beat them cruelly, and they were forced to remain 
in the ramparts. Don Pedro suggested to them a 
novel idea; this was to eat the fodder, which the 
horses and mules no longer eat, as they were dead. 
This lasted a week, after which, they had to 
think of something else. The circumstance was 
not very advantageous. 

The Prince of Wales, wearied at not receiving 
the sums of money which Don Pedro owed him, 
sent three deputies to Toledo to present the note 
of the expenses of the war. 

Don Pedro consulted Mothril upon this fresh 
embarrassment. 

“The Christians,” replied Mothril, “are very 
fond of ceremonial splendours and public fetes ; 
at the time we had bulls, I should have advised 
you to give them a brilliant bull-fight, but there are 
none left, we must think of something equivalent.” 

“Speak, speak.” 

“These deputies are come to ask you for 
money. All Toledo waits your reply; if you 
refuse, 'tis that your chests are empty; in that 
case count no longer on anything.’’ 

“But I cannot pay, we have nothing left.” 

“ I know it well, seigneur, I who administer 
your finances; at the same time, in default of 
money, we must have imagination. You will 
invite the deputies to repair in great pomp to the 
cathedral; there, in presence of all the people, 
who will be greatly delighted to see your royal 
nabits, the gold and precious stones of the sacer- 
dotal ornaments, the richness of the armour, and 
the hundred and fifty horses that remain in the 
town as samples of curious animals, whose race is 
extinct; there, I tell you, you will say: — ‘ Seig- 
neur Deputies, have you full powers to treat with 
me?’— ‘Yes,’ they will say, ‘we represent His 
Highness the Prince of Wales, our gracious 
oeigneur.’ ‘Well!’ you will say, ‘you are come 
to demand of me the sum of money which it has 
Deen agreed I am to pay?* — ‘Yes,’ they will 
reply. ‘ I do not dispute the debt,’ you will say, 
my prince. ‘But it was agreed between his high- 
ness and myself, that in return for the sum due, I 
should have the protection, the alliance, and the 
co-operation of the English.’ ” 

“ But I have had it!” exclaimed Don Pedro. 

“Yes, but you have it not, and you risk having the 
contrary, a his, therefore, you must obtain from 
them above all, neutrality; seeing that if, with the 
army, Henry de Transtamara, and the Bretons, 
commanded by the constable, you have to fight 
your cousin the Prince of Wales and twenty 
thousand English, you are lost my prince, and 
the English will pay themselves with their own 
hands with yoiir spoils.” 

“ They will refuse me, M ,thril, because I shall 
not pay them.” 

“ If they intended to refuse, it would be already 
done; but the Christians are too proud to avow 
to each other that they have been deceived. The 
Prince of Wales would rather lose all that you 
twe him, and pass for having been paid, than to 


be paid without its being known. Let me finish. 
Your deputies will summon you to pay them. 
You will reply: — ‘From all parts I am threa- 
tened with the hostilities of the Prince of Wales. 
If this be so, I would prefer losing my whole 
kingdom than allow to subsist a trace of 
alliance with so disloyal a prince. Swear to me, 
then, that for two months hence his highness will 
keep, not the promise he has made to assist dip, 
but that which was made previously, of remain- 
ing neuter, and in two months, I s.wear on the 
Holy Evangelist, here you shall be paid; I hold 
the money quite ready.’ The deputies will swear, 
that they might be enabled to return quickly to 
their own country; your people will then be joy- 
ful, comforted, sure of having no more fresh 
enemies, and after having eaten their horses and 
mules, they will eat all the rats and lizards of 
Toledo, which are in such great numbers on 
account of the neighbourhood of the rocks and 
the river.’’ 

“ But in two months, Mothril?” 

“ You will not pay, it’s true; but you will have 
gained or lost the battle we are about to engage 
in; in two months you will no longer have occa- 
sion, conqueror or conquered, to pay your debts; 
conqueror, because you will have more credit 
than you want; conquered because you will be 
worse than insolvent.” 

“ But my oath on the bible?” 

“ You have often spoken of turning mahometan, 
this will be an opportunity, my prince. Devoted 
to Mahomet, you will not have to trouble yourself 1 
about Jesus Christ, the other prophet.” 

“Execrable heathen!” murmured Don Pedro; 
“ what counsel!” 

“ I do not deny it,” replied Mothril; “ but your 
faithful Christians give none at all; mine is, there- 
fore, the best.” 

Don Pedro, after having well reflected, exe- 
cuted, from end to end, Mothril’s plan. The cere- 
mony was imposing, the Toledans forgot their 
hunger at si^ht of the magnificences of the 
court, and the preparations of warlike pomp. 
Don Pedro displayed so much magnanimity, 
made such an elegant discourse, aud swore so 
solemnly, that the deputies, after swearing to the 
neutrality, appeared more happy than if they had 
received the money down. * 

“What matter, after all,” said Don Pedro, “it 
will last as long as I shall.” 

He had greater luck than he expected, for ac- 
cording 4 to the anticipations of Mothril, a great 
reinforcement of Africans arrived by the Tagus, 
and forced the lines of the enemy to revictual 
Toledo ; so that Don Pedro, reckoning his forces, 
found himself commanding an army of eighty 
thousand men, including Jews, Saracens, Portu- 
guese, and Castilians. He kept himself apart 
during all these preparations, managing his per- 
son with extreme care, and leaving nothing to 
chance, which might, by a single accident, lose 
him the result of a great blow he meditated. 

Don Henry, on the contrary, already organized 
a government as an elected king, safe on his 
throne; he determined that on the morrow of an 
action that should yield him the crown, this 
royalty should be solid and healthy, as that con- 
secrated by a long peace. 

Agenor, during these mutual preparations, kept 
his eye on Montiel, and knew by means of well- 
paid spies, that Mothril, having established a 
cordon of troops between the chateau and Toledo, 
went nearly every day, on a Barbary horse, light 
a* the wind, to visit Aissa, entirely recovered from 


212 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIOHT OF MAULEON. 


her wound. He had tried every means to obtain 
an entrance into the chateau, or to apprize A'issa; 
but nothing had succeeded. Musaron had brought 
himself into a fever by force of dreaming. At 
length Agenor saw no other safety but in a near 
and general combat, which would allow him to kill 
with his own hand Don Pedro, and to take 
Mothril alive, in such a way, that he could, for 
the ransom of this odious life, purchase A'issa free 
and alive. This sweet thought, his incessant 
dream, fatigued the brain of the young man by 
liis devoted assiduity. lie had fallen into a pro- 
found disgust ol everything which did not relate 
to an active and decisive war; and as he formed 
part of the council of chiefs, his opinion was al- 
ways to raise the siege and force Don Pedro to a 
set battle, lie encountered serious adversaries in 
the council, for the army of Henry did not amount 
to more than twenty thousand men, and many 
officers thought that it would be folly to hazard, 
with such a poor chance, such a good position. 
But Agenor represented that if Don Henry had 
at his disposition but twenty thousand men 
since his manifesto, and did not make himself 
known by some brilliant action, his forces would 
diminish instead of increase, whilst the Tagus 
brougut daily to Don Pedro strong reinforce- 
ments of Saracens and Portuguese. “ The towns 
are alarmed,” he said, “ they are floating between 
two banners; see the address with which Don 
Pedro reduces you to inaction, which to all is a 
proof of our impotence. Abandon Toledo, which 
you will not take. .Remember that if you ar° 
conquerors, the town will be compelled to yield, 
whilst nothing urges them to at present; on the 
contrary, Mothril’s plan is being executed. You 
will be enclosed between walls of stone and walls 
of steel; behind you the Tagus lined by eighty 
thousand soldiers. We must no longer tight 
merely to die well; to-day you can attack to con- 
quer.” 

Tiie foundation of this discourse was an in- 
terested one; but what good advice is not a little 
so? The constable had too much of the spirit and 
experience of war not to support Mauleon. There 
remained the indecision of the king, who risked 
much in striking a hazardous blow with* >ut having 
taken every precaution ; but that which men do 
not do, God has done in his will. 

Don Pedro was as eager as Agenor to obtain 
possession of the treasure which, next to his 
throne, he desired the most in the world. Every 
time at night, when his affairs being arranged, he 
could, along a hedge of devoted soldiers, hasten to 
Montiel, and contemplate for a quarter of an hour 
the beautiful A'issa, so pale and so sad, the king 
was happy. 

Mothril accorded him this happiness but 
rarely. The project of the Saracen was ripe, his 
net well stretched had caught his prey; it w f as 
only necessary to guard it, for a king ensnared is 
like a lion in the toils, he is never less taken than 
when caught. Mothril was solicited by Don 
Pedro to deliver A'issa to him; he promised to 
marry her, and that she should ascend the throne. 
“ No,” replied Mothril, “ it is not at the moment 
of a battle that a king celebrates his wedding — it 
is not when so many brave men are dying for him 
that he must think of love. No, await the 
victory, and then everything shall be permitted 
j r ou.” He thus restrained the lurious king. His 
idea, hovVever, was transparent, awd Don Pedro 
would have easily recognised it if he had not been 
blind. Mothril resolved to make A'issa queen of 
Castile, because he knew that this alliance of the 


Christian with the mahometan would stir uj 
Christianity, because, then, every one would a ban. 
don Don Pedro; and that the Saracens, so often 
vanquished, were ready to reconquer Spain, ami 
instal themselves in it for ever. Mothril, in th&t 
case, would become king of Spain! Mothril so 
accredited amongst his countrymen, he who for 
six years had guided them, step by step, through 
this land of promise, with a progress evident to 
all, except to the king, drunk or mad. But as by 
giving Aissa, by contriving a return of adversity 
to Don Pedro, it was necessary to act slowly and 
surely, Mothril waited for a decisive victoiy, 
which would destroy the most furious enemies 
that the Moors could encounter in Spain. It was 
necessary that with the name of Don Pedro, the 
Moors should gain a great battle, to kill Henry 
de Transtamara, Bertrand Duguesclin, and all the 
Bretons, to show, in fact, to Christianity, that Spain 
was a soil easily opened when requisite to dig the 
tombs of invaders. It was also necessary that the 
greatest obstacle to the projects of Mothril, 
Agenor de Mauleon, should be removed, in order 
that the young Moresca, softened at first by pro- 
mises and by the assurance of a near union, then 
discouraged by an unsuspicious death on the field 
of battle, should allow herself to be drawn by de- 
spair to serve Mothril, whom she would not dis- 
trust. The Moor redoubled his tenderness, his 
attentions; he went so far as to accuse Hafiz of' 
having been in correspondence with Donna Maria 
to deceive Agenor or to ruin him. Hafiz was 
dead and could no longer justify himself. He 
procured for A'issa news, either true or counter- 
feited, of Agenor. “ He thinks of you,” he said, 
“he loves you; he is near his seigneur the con- 
stable, and never misses an opportunity of cor- 
responding with the emissaries I despaten to him 
to obtain news.” 

A'issa, encouraged by these words, waited pa- 
tiently. She found even a certain charm in this 
separation, which was a guarantee that Mauleon 
thought of his union with her. Her days were 
passed in the most retired apartment of the cha- 
teau. There, alone with her women, idle and 
thoughtful, she contemplated the country from a 
window looking perpendicularly on the ravine of , 
the rocks of Montiel. When Don Pedro visited 
her, she showed him that formal and freezing 
politeness, which, among women incapable of dis- - 
simulation, is the supreme, effort of hypocrisy, i 
A coldness so unintelligible, that the presumptuous 
receive it sometimes for the timidity of a com- 
mencement of love. 

The king had never experienced resistance. 
The proudest of women, Maria Paddla, had loved 
him, preferred him to all. How could he not be- 
lieve in the love of Ansa, especially since the 
death of Maria, and the calumnies of Mothril had 
j5brsuaded him that the heart of his daughter was 
pure of every thought of love? 

Mothril attentively watched the king at every 
visit. Not a word of this prince was without 
value to him, and he did not permit Aissa to reply 
by a single word; her state of heal:h imperiously 
demanded, he said, silence; and, besides, he was 
perpetually in fear of any intelligence of Don 
Pedro with the people of the chateau, an intelli- 
gence that would have delivered Ai-sa to the king, 
as so many other women had been. Mothril, jT 
sovereign master at Montiel, had, therefore, taken 
his precautions. The best of all was to convince 
A'issa that he approved of her love for Agenor. 
Now, the young girl was convinced. The result 
was that the day on which Mothril was to quit 


213 


4 

THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MATTLEON. 


the chateau to take the command of the African 
troops arrived for the battle, he had but two re- 
commendations to give, the one to his lieutenant, 
the other to Aissa herself. This lieutenant was 
the same who, before the combat at Navarrete, 
hud so badly defended A'issas litter ; but he burned 
to take his revenge. He was a soldier rather than 
a retainer. Incapable of humbling himself to the 
complaisances of Hafiz, he only comprehended the 
obedience due to his chief, and the respect he owed 
to the duties of religion. Aissa herself only com- 
prehended one thing also; to be united eternally 
to Maul eon. 

“ I depart for the bottle,”' said Mothril to her. 
“ I have made a compact with the Sire de Mau- 
leon that we mutually spare each other in the 
combat. Conqueror, he will come for you in this 
chateau, the gates of which I will open to him, 
and you will fly with him, with me, if you love 
me as a father. Vanquished, he comes to me, I 
bring him to you, and he will be indebted to me 
both for his life and your possession. Shall you 
love me, Ai'ssa, for such devotedness? You com- 
prehend that if the king, Don Pedro, knew a 
sitigle word, suspected a single idea of this plan, 
nyy head would roll at his feet within an hour, 
and you would be for ever lost to the man you love. 

ALsa was lavish in protestations of gratitude, 
and saluted this day of mourning and blood as 
the aurora of her liberty and happiness. 

When he had tlius prepared the young girl, he 
gave his instructions to his lieutenant: — “ Has- 
san,” he said to him, “the prophet is about to 
decide on the life and fortune of Don Pedro; we 
are going to deliver battle. If we are vanquished, 
or even if we are conquerors, and if, on the even- 
ing of the battle, I am not returned to the chateau, 
it w ill be that I am either wounded, dead, or a 
prisoner; in this case, you will open the door of 
Donna Aissa’s apartment, here is the key ; you 
will poignard her with her two women, and you 
will throw them from the top of the rock into the 
ravine, because it is not right that good mussul- 
mans should be exposed to the insults of a 
Christian, be he called Don Pedro or Transta- 
mara. Watch better than at Navarrete; there 
your vigilance was at fault; I have pardoned you, 

I allowed you to live; this time the prophet 
w ill punish you. Swear then to execute my 
orders.” 

“ I swear it!” said Hassan, coldly; “and the 
three women dead. I will poignard myself with 
them, that my spirit may watch over theirs.” 

“ Thanks,” replied Mothril, passing over his 
shoulders his collar of gold. “ You are a faithful 
servant, and if we are victorious, you shall have 
the command of this castle. Let Donna Aissa 
be ignorant, until the last moment, of the fate 
reserved for her; she is a woman, she is feeble, 
she must suffer death but once. As to the vic- 
tory,” he hastened to say, “ I do not think it can 
escape us. Thus, my order is a precaution to 
which we shall ncrt be compelled to recur. 
Having thus spoken, Mothril took his arms, his 
best horse, was followed by ten devoted men, and 
leaving the command of Montiel to Hassan, he 
departed at night to reach Don Pedro, who impa- 
tiently awaited him. Mothril counted upon the 
victory, and he had a right to. The chances were 
as follows: — Four to one; fresh succours arriving 
every moment, all the gold of Africa sent into 
Spain with a sullen and immutable will, that of a 
conquest a design never abandoned, often de- 
stroyed; whilst the knights of Europe fought 
there, some for cupidity, others from a religious 


duty, all very coldx/, and quite ready to feel 
disgusted at a reverse. If ever an event burst in 
the midst of well concerted projects, it was that 
of the battle to which history has given the poetic 
and chivalresque Dame of Montiel. 


CHAPTER LXXI. 

AISSA. 

Don Pedro, impatient, collected all his troopa 
between Montiel and Toledo. They covered two 
leagues of country, and amphitheatred even to 
the mountains, cavalry and infantry, with a 
splendid ordnance. 

There was no hesitation for Don Henry. To 
sustain tlie action like a man constrained, was 
unworthy a pretender who, in his turn, in Castile, 
had set up this device : — “ JRcster ici roi ou mort /” 
(Remain here a king or dead.) He went to the 
constable then, and said to him:— “This time, 
again, Sire Bertrand, I place in your hands the 
care of my kingdom. ’Tis you who will com- 
mand. You may be more lucky than at Navar- 
rete, you will not be more brave or more skilful. 
But, you know, Christians, that which God does 
not permit at one time, he may, undoubtedly, 
permit at another.” 

“Then, I command, sire!” exclaimed the con- 
stable warmly. 

“As a king! I am your first or your last 
lieutenant, sire constable,” replied the prince. 

“And you say to me what King Charles V., 
my wise and glorious master, said to me at Paris, 
on giving me the constable’s sword.” 

“ What did he say to you, brave Bertrand?” 

“He said to me, sire: — ‘ Discipline is badly 
observed in my armies, which are lost for want of 
submission and justice. There are princes who 
blush to obey a simple knight; but never was a 
battle gained without the concord of all and the 
will of one. Thus, you will command, Bertrand, 
and every disobedient head, were it that of my 
own brother, shall be humbled, or fall, if it will 
not submit.’ ” These words, pronounced before 
the whole council, summed up delicately the mis- 
fortune of Navarrete, where the imprudence of 
Don Telles and of Don Sancho, brothers of the 
king, had caused the ruin of a great portion of 
the army. The princes present heard these words 
of Duguesclin and blushed. 

“Sire Constable,” said the king, “ I have said 
that you command, you are, therefore, the 
master. Whoever here does not execute your 
orders or your caprice, I will strike him myself 
with this my axe, were he my ally, were 
he. my relation, were he my brother. In fact, 
who loves me, should wish me victory, and I 
shall only conquer by the obedience of all to the 
wisest captain of Christianity.” 

“ Thus be it,” replied Duguesclin. “ I accept 
the command; to-morrow we will deliver battle ” 
The constable passed the whole night in attend- 
ing to the reports of his spies and couriers. Some 
announced that fresh bands of Saracens were 
being landed at Cadiz. Others enlarged on the 
disasters of the country which the eighty thou- 
sand men ravaged for the last month like a cloud 
of locusts. “ It is time that this were finished,” 
said the constable to the king, “for these gentry 
will have devoured your kingdom so well that, 
after the victory, not a morsel of ii will remain 
to you.” 

Agenor, joyful, and his heart oppressed at the 


214 


THE ERON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULKON. 


same time, as it happens on the eve of an event we 
desire, but which is to decide an important ques- 
tion, Age nor cheated his griefs and his uneasiness 
by an extraordinary display of activity. Always 
on horseback, he carried orders, assembled and 
grouped the companies, reconnoitred the ground, 
and assigned to each troop its place for the 
morrow. 

Duguesclin divided his army into five corps. 
Four thousand five hundred horse, commanded by 
Oliver Duguesclin and the Begue de Yilaines 
formed the advance guard. The chosen French 
and Spaniards, to the number of six thousand, 
formed the corps of battle, commanded by Don 
Henry de Transtamara. The Arragonese and 
other allies, held the rear guard. A reserve of 
four hundred cavalry, commanded by Oliver de 
Mauny was to cover the retreats. As to the con- 
stable, he had taken the three thousand Bretons, 
commanded by the younger De Mauny, Car- 
lounet, La Houssaie, and Agenor. This troop, 
well mounted, and composed of invincible men, 
were, like a powerful arm, to charge wherever 
the eye of the chief judged it necessary for the 
gain of the day. Bertrand had the soldiers under 
arms before day-break, and each marched slowly 
to his post, so that before the day broke, the arm} 7 
was ranged, without fatigue and without confu- 
sion. He never made a long harangue: — “ Think 
only,” said he, “that you have each four enemies 
to kill, but that you are as good as ten, this 
collection of Jews, Moors, and Portuguese, can- 
not stand against the soldiers of France and Spain. 
Strike without pity, kill all that are not Chris- 
tians. I have never shed blood for pleasure; to 
day necessity makes it a law torus; there is no 
tie between Moors and Spaniards; they detest 
each other; interest alone unites them; but the 
moment the Moors find themselves sacrificed to 
the Spaniards, the moment they seeyouinthe melee 
spnre the Christian to slay the infidel, suspicion 
will enter the ranks of the Moors, and the first 
despair passed, they will quickly look to their 
safety. Slay them, and without mercy!’’ This 
charge produced the accustomed effect; an ex- 
traordinary enthusiasm ran through the ranks. 

Don Pedro, however, was at work; he was seen 
manoeuvring those undisciplined but immense 
African battalions, whose arms and sumptuous 
uniform^ glittered in the burning sun. 

When Duguesclin saw this innumerable multi- 
tude from the top of a hill which he had chosen as 
an observatory, he feared that the small number 
of his soldiers would give too great a confidence 
to his enemies. He, therefore, thinned the rear 
ranks, to fill up those in front, in such a way as 
to make them appear equal. He also planted 
behind the little hillocks, a quantity of standards, 
that the Saracens might think that under these 
standards, there were soldiers. 

Don Pedro saw all this; his genius rose with 
the danger. He addressed an eloquent discourse 
to his faithful Spaniards, and brilliant promises to 
the Saracens; but, brilliant as they were, they 
could not equal the hopes that his allies founded 
on his own spoils The trumpets sounded on the 
part of Don Pedro; those of Duguesclin replied to 
them, and a great shock, like that of two worlds 
rushing upon each other, agitated the ground, even 
to the trees on the hills. From the first onset, the 
recommendation of Duguesclin was evident. The 
Bretons, by refusing to make mahometan prisoners, 
and by slaying all, whilst they spared the Spaniards 
and Christians, threw a great mistrust in the 
minds of the infidels, and this mistrust spread, lit 3 


a shudder, through the ranks of the Saracens, like 
cold water. They imagined that the Christians, ua 
both sides, understood each ether, and that, whether 
Henry were conqueror, or conquered, the Sara- 
cens would be the only victims. Their ranks had 
been attacked by the brother of Duguesclin and 
Begue de Yilaines; these intrepid Bretons carried 
such a massacre round them, that the chiefs hav- 
ing been slain, and the Prince of Bennemarine 
himself, the Moors took fright and fled, their front 
ranks having been cut to pieces. The second 
wavered, but still advanced bravely; Duguesclin 
commanded the attack of his three thousand 
Bretons, and charged them so impetuously, that 
half of them turned upon their heels, or rather the 
heels of their horses. It was a second massacre; 
generals, nobles, soldiers, all were slain. Not a 
single one escaped. Duguesclin returned to his 
post; and heated, and wiping his face, he saw 
King Henry also returning from the pursuit, and, 
according to orders, resuming his rank with his 
men. 

“ Thanks, messeigneurs,” said Bertrand, “ all 
seems to go well, and almost of itself. We have 
only lost about a thousand men, twenty-five thou- 
sand Saracens are on the ground; look at the 
handsome carpet; all goes well.” 

“ If it lasts!” murmured Henry. 

“At least we will employ ourselves with it,” 
replied the constable. “ See that Mauleon who 
rushes on the third corps of S racens, commanded 
by Mothril. The Moor has teen him, and orders 
them to enclose him; the cavaliers already depart. 
He will be killed, sound the retreat, trumpets.” 

Ten trumpets sounded; Agenor listened, and as 
submissive as though he had accomplished an exer- 
cise of the manege , he returned to his post under a 
shower of arrows that peppered his stout armour 

“ Now,” said the constable, “ my advance guard 
attacks the Spaniards; they are good troops, mes- 
seigneurs, and we shall not get a cheap bargain. 
It must divide itself here into three corps, and 
attack on three sides. The king, he continued, 
will take the left, Oliver the right, myself shall 
wait.” 

As we see, he touched neither his reserve, nor 
his light horse. The Spaniards received the 
shock, as men determined to die or conquer. Henry, 
attacking the corps of Don Pedro, encountered the 
resistance of hatred and intelligent valour. The 
two kings recognised each other at a distance, and 
exchanged menaces without being enabled *9 meet. 
Around them rose mountains of men, and weapons 
clashing against each other, the mountains then 
sank down engulfed, and the earth drank in 
streams of blood. Henry’s corps suddenly wavered; 
Don Pedro had the advantage, he fought like a 
lion, not like a soldier. Already one of his squires 
was slain, he changed his horse for the second 
time ; he had not a wound, and his arm brandished 
with so much address and regularity his batt e 
axe, that every blow felled a man. Henry saw 
himself surrounded with the Moors of Mothril, and 
by Mothril himself, who was the tiger, if Don 
Pedro was the lion. The French seigneurs were 
mowed down in numbers by the yatagans and 
cimeters of the Moors; their ranks began to op<n, 
and the arrows reached the breast of the king, 
already even an audacious one had struck him 
with his lance. 

“It is time!” exclaimed the constable. “ For- 
ward, my friends, Notre-Dame du Gueselin, to the 
victory !” 

The three thousand Bretons moved away with s 
terrible noise, and forming in an angle, penetrated 


THE IKON H4ND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


215 


tike a wedge of steel into the army of Don Pedro, 
which numbered twenty thousand men. 

Age nor had at length the permission so ardently 
wished for, of fighting an 1 taking Mothril! 

In a quarter of an hour, the Spaniards were 
i broken, crushed; the Moorish cavalry could not 
maintain itself against the weight of men-at-arms, 
and the blow of the terrible pointe. 

Mothril, determined to fly, but ho encountered 
the Arragonese,and the men of Begue de Vilaines, 
commanded by Mauleon. 

It was necessary to pass at all hazards, under 
the penalty of being surrounded by this terrible 
wall. Agenor already thought himself the master 
of the life and liberty of Mothril, but the latter, 
with three hundred men at the most, cut through 
the Bretons, lost two hundred and fifty cavaliers, 

I and passed; on passing he struck a blow with his 
cimeter at the head of Agenor’s horse, who was 
following him at two paces. Agenor rolled in the 
dust, Musaron let fly an arrow that missed, and 
Mothril, like the wolf that flies, disappeared 
behind the piles of dead in the direction of Montiel. 

At this moment, Don Pedro saw his men 
yielding; he felt, so to speak, on his visage the 
breath of his most furious enemies. But one of 
them broke his crest of gold, and slew his 
standard bearer; that which was the disgrace of 
the prince, saved the man. Don Pedro was no 
longer recognisable; the carnage around him 
continued without consciousness. It was then, 
that an English knight, with black armour, with 
his vizor carefully lowered, took his horse by the 
bridle, and dragged him from the field of battle. 
Four hundred horsemen, concealed behind a 
hillock by tne prudent friend, escorted alone the 
fugitive king. It was all that remained to Don 
Pedro of the eighty thousand men who lived for 
him at the commencement of the battle. As the 
plain was covered with fugitives in all directions, 
Bertrand could not distinguish the troops of the 
king from the rest of the scattered bands; it was 
not even known whether Don Pedro were living 
or dead. The constable, therefore, launched at 
hazard his .reserve, and the fifteen hundred cava- 
liers of Oliver de Mauny, on all tha r fled; but 
Don Pedro had the start, thanks to the excellence 
of his horses. They did not think of following 
him, besides, they could not recognise him; for 
all he was but an ordinary fugitive. But Agenor, 
he, who knew the road to Montiel, and the interest 
of Don Pedro to take refuge there, Agenor kept 
watch on this side. He had seen Mothril escape 
in this direction. He guessed who this English- 
man was, so complaisant towards the king, Don 
Pedro. He saw the corps of four hundred cava- 
liers escorting a man, who preceded them some 
way, thanks to the speed of his magnificent h >rse; 
he recognized the king by his broken helmet, 
and his golden spurs red with blood; he recognised 
him by the ardour with which he regarde d from 
a distance the towers of Montiel. Agenor cast 
his eyes round him, to s^p if some corps of the 
army could assist him to follow this precious 
fugitive, and cut off the retreat of his four hundred 
cavaliers. He only saw the Begue de Vilaines 
with eleven hundred horse who, out of breath, 
were reposing before making, like the rest, a 
general pursuit. Bertrand was too distant to 
drive the fugitives, and complete the victory on 
all points: — “ Mess ire,” said Agenor to the Begue, 

“ corne quickly to my assistance, if you would 
take the king, Don Pedro, for ’tis him escaping 
yonder to the chateau.” 

“ Are you sure of it?” exclaimed the Begue. 


“As of my life, messire;” replied Mauleon , “I 
recognise the man who commands these eav alie;s; 
’tis Caverley, without doubt he only ma kes so 
good an escort to the king, to take him at his 
ease and sell him; ’tis his trade.” 

“ Yes,” exclaimed the Begue, “ but w' e must 
not allow an Englishman to strike this ha ndsome 
blow, when we are here so many brave French 
lances;” and turning towards his cavaliers: — 
“To horse, all!” said the captain, “and let ten 
men apprise M. the Constable, that we are gone 
towards Montiel to seek the vanquished king.” 

The Bretons charged with such fury, that they 
reached the cavaliers. The English chief im- 
mediately divided his troop into two bands; the 
one followed the individual supposed to be the 
king, the other stood firm before the Bretons. 

“Charge! charge!” cried Agenor, “they only- 
wish to gain time for the king to enter Montiel.” 

Unfortunately for the Bretons, a defile opened 
in front of them; they could not enter it by more 
than six abreast, to follow the English fugitives. 

“We shall lose them! they are escaping us!” 
cried Mauleon; “courage. Bretons, courage!” 

“ Yes, we escape you, you bearnaiq of the 
devil!” hurled the English knight the chief of 
the escort; “ besides, if you wish to take us, come.” 
He spoke with this confidence, because Agenor, 
urged by his activity, his jealousy, outran all his 
companions, and appeared almost alone before the 
two hundred English lances. 

The intrepid young man did not stop before 
this terrible danger; he buried his spurs in the 
flanks of his horse, w hite with foam. 

Caverley was bold, and his natural ferocity 
easily accommodated itself to a victory that 
seemed almost inevitable. Placed as he was, in 
the midst of his men, he awaited Mauleon, fixing 
himself firmly in his saddle. A curious spectacle 
was then seen; that of a chevalier running full 
tilt, upon two hundred lances in rest. 

“Oh! the cowardly Englishman!” cried the 
Begue from a distance; “oh! cow r ard! coward! 
Stop, Mauleon; ’tis too much chivalry! cowardly, 
cowardly English!” 

Caverley w r as overcome by shame; after all, lie 
was a knight, and owed a coup- de-lance for the 
honour of his golden spurs and his nation. He 
left the ranks, and put himself in battle array : — 
“I have already your sword,” he cried to Mau- 
leon, who advanced like lightning. “ ’Tis not 
here as in the cavern at Montiel, and, before long, 

I shall have the whole armour. 

“ Take the lance first,” replied the young man, 
directing such a furious thrust with the lance, that 
the Englishman was unhorsed, bruised, and laid 
on the ground with his horse. 

“Hurrah!” cried the Bretons, drunk with joy, 
and still advancing; which, the English seeing, 
they turned bridle, and endeavoured to overtake 
their companions, who w r ere already flying across 
the plain, abandoning the king, carried by his 
horse towards Montiel. 

Caverley endeavoured to rise, his loins w r ere 
injured; his horse, in extricating himself, kicked 
him in the breast, and again nai’ed him to the 
ground, inundated with a stream of black blood. 

— “By the devil!” he murmured, “’tis finished; 

I shall not again arrest anyone; I am a deal 
one!’ and he fell back. At the same instant, all 
the Breton cavalry arrived, and the eleven hundred 
horses, barbed with iron, passed like a hurricane 
over the slashed body of this celebrated king-taker. 

But this delay had saved Don Pedro; in vain, 
with heroic efforts, did the Begue de Vilaine* 


216 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


give a triple soul to men and beasts. The Bretons 
run with fury, at the risk of breaking their nocks, 
but they did n ot arrive on the traces of Don Pedro 
till the moment when the prince entered the first 
barrier of the chateau, and in safety, for the gate 
was just closed. He thanked God for having tins 
time escaped again. Mothril himself had entered 
a quarter of an hour before. The Begue, in des- 
pair, tore his hair. 

“ Patience, messire,” said Agenor, “ let us lose 
no time, but invest the place; what we have 
been unable to do to-day, we will do to- 
morrow.” 

The Begue followed this advice, he dispersed all 
his horsemen round the castle, and the night fell 
at the moment the last egress was closed against 
any one who might attempt to quit Montiel. 

Now arrived Duguesclin, with three thousand 
men, and he learnt from Agenor the important 
news. “ ’Tis unlucky, ’ he said, “ for the place is 
impregnable.'* 

“ Seigneur, we shall see,” replied Mauleon; “ if 
we cannot enter, it is quite as certain that no one 
can leave.” 

The constable was not a credulous man. He 
had, as to the talents of Don Pedro, as favourable 
an opinion, as he had an unfavourable one of lus 
character. When he had made the round of 
"Montiel, and reconnoitred the place; when he 
was convinced that with a good and sure guard 
they might prevent the egress of a mouse from 
the castle: — “ No, Messire de Mauleon,” he said, 
“ we have not the happiness you' would have us 
hope for. No. the king, Don Pedro has, not shut 
himself up in Montiel, because he knows too well 
that he would be blockaded and be taken by 
famine,” 

“ I protest to you, monseigneur,” replied Mau- 
leon, - that Mothril is in Montiel, and the king, 
Don Pedro with him.” 

“ I shall believe jt when I see him,” said the 
constable. “ How many iu garrison are there at 
Montiel?’ demanded Bertrand. 

“ Seigneur, about three hundred men.” 

“ These three hundred men, if they would only 
roll stones on our heads, would kill five thousand 
of our men, without bur being enabled to send 
them a single arrow. To-morrow Don Henry 
will be here; he is occupied in summoning Toledo 
to surrender; immediately after his arrival, we 
will deliberate if it is better to depart than to lose 
a month here for nothing.” 

Agcnor wished to reply. The constable was 
opiniated like a Breton, he suffered no reply; or. 
rather, would not allow himself to be persuaded. 

The next morning, in fact, Don Henry arrived, 
radiant* with victory. He brought the army in- 
toxicated with joy, and when his council had de- 
liberated on the question as to whether Don 
Pedro was or was not at Montiel: “I think with 
the constable,” said the king; “Don Pedro is too 
cunning to have openly shut himself up in a place 
withoir issue. We must, therefore, leave a feeble 
garrison here to trouble Montiel. force the castle 
to capitulate, and not leave behind us a place, 
proud at not having been taken ; but I shall pass 
on; I have, thank God, other things to attend to, 
and Don Pedro is not here.” 

Agenor was present at the discussion. “ Seig- 
m ur,” he said, “I am very young and very inex- 
perienced to raise my voice in the midst of so 
many valiant captains, but my conviction is such 
that nothing can shake it. I recognised Caverley 
ursuihg the king, and Caverley has been slain, 
saw Don Pedro eater the gates of Montiel, I 


recognised his broken crest, his broken crown, his 
bloody golden spurs.” 

“And why should not Caverley himself have 
been mistaken? I, myself, changed armour at 
Navarrete with a faithful follower,” replied Don 
Henry; “ might not Don Pedro have done tlio 
same?” This last reply obtained a general assent. 
Agenor saw himself once more beaten. “ I hope 
that you are now persuaded,” said the king to him. 

“ No. sire,” he replied, humbly, “but I can do 
nothing against the prudent ideas of your n ijesty.” 

You must be convinced, Sire de Maule >n; you 
must be convinced.” 

“ I will endeavour to be so,” said the young 
man, with a pain he could not dissemble. 

In fact, what a cruel position for this lo* »r, so 
tender! Don Pedro was shut up with A'issa Don 
Pe ro, exasperated by defeat, and having no Sing 
more to care for; with the prospect of a speedy death, 
would not this prince, without faith, have sought 
to precede his agony by a last voluptuousne.^? 
would he leave intact and in the power of another 
the young girl he loved, and whom violence might 
place in his arms? Besides, was not Mothril 
there, that artisan of odious ruses, capable of any- 
thing to push a step further his sanguinary and 
avaricious policy. This it was that rendered 
Agenor mad with rage and disappointment. He 
foresaw that in longer guarding his secret he ex- 
posed himself to witness the departure of Don 
Henry, the army, the constable; and that then Don 
Pedro, very superior in mind and* talents to the 
wearied lieutenants left at Montiel, would succeed 
in escaping, after having sacrifice* Aissa to the 
caprice of a moment of ennui. He suddenly took 
his resolution, and demanded of the king a private 
interview. “ Sire,” he then said to him, “ here is 
the reason w’hy Don Pedro has taken refuge in 
Montiel, despite all appearances; ’tis a secret 
that I kept, for it is my own, but I ought to yield 
it for the honour of your glory; Don Pedro pas 
sionately loves Aissa, the daughter of Mothril; 
he wishes to marry her. It was for this that he 
suffered Mothril to assassinate Donna Maria de 
Padilla; as for Maria he had had killed Madame 
Blanche de Bourbon. ’ 

“Well!” said the king, “Aissa >«. at Montiel, 
then?” 

“ She is there,” replied Agenor.” 

“ Another thing of w hich you are not more cer- 
tain than the other, my friend.” 

“ I am sure of it,‘ seigneur, because a lover 
always knows where his cherished mistress is.” 

“ You love Aissa — a Moresca?” 

“ I love her passionately, monseigneur, like Don 
Pedro, with this difference, that for me Aissa 
would turn Christian, whilst she would kill herself 
rather than Don Pedro should possess her. ? ’ 

Agenor had become pale in pronouncing these 
w’ords, for he did not believe it, the poor chevalier, 
and this idea threw him into despair; besides, if 
Aissa killed herself to prevent her dishonour, she 
was still lost for him. This avowal threw 1 Don 
Henry into a profound peiplexity. “This is, in- 
deed, a reason; but narrate to me how you know 
that Aissa is at Montiel.” Agenor recounted from 
beginning to end the death of Hafiz, and the de- 
tails of Aissas wound. “Have you any plan, 
eh?” said the king. 

“ I have one, seigneur, and if your majesty 
wmuld lend me your assistance, I will place Don 
Pedro in your hands within a week, as on the last 
occasion 1 gave you certain information.” 

The king sent for the constable, to whjca 
Agenor again recounted all he had said. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


217 



*1 do not believe that a prince so rust, so 
cruel, would allow himself to be caught from ]o T ,e 
to a woman,’’ replied the constable; “but the Sire 
de Mauleon has my word to assist him in his own 
way. I will aid him.” 

“Leave the place invested, then,” said Agenor; 
“ have a fosse dug all round it, and with the soil of 
this fosse raise an intrenchment, behind wffiich 
shall be concealed, not soldiers, but vigilant and 
able officers, I and my squire will lodge in a spot 
we know of, and from whence we can hear every 
sound in the place. Don Pedro, if he sees a 
strong besieging army will think his arrival at 
Montiel known, and he will be mistrustful; now 
mistrust is the salvation of so skilful and dange- 
rous a man. Send away to Toledo all your 
troops, leaving only on the earthen ramparts two 
thousand men, quite sufficient to invest the castle 
and sustain a sortie. When Don Pedro thinks 
that he is negligently guarded, he will attempt to 


escape, I'll ansvrer for it.” Scarcely had Age 
nor developed hi : plan and succeeded in capti 
vating the attention of the king, when the} 
announced, on the part of the governor of Mon 
tiel, a herald to the constable. 

“ Let him enter here,” said Bertrand, “ an 
explain himself.’ 

It w r as a Spanish officer, named Rodrigo d« 
Sanatrias. He announced to the const abfe that 
the garrison of Montiel viewed with alarm the 
display of considerable forces; that the three hun- 
dred men shut up in the castle with a single 
officer would not long struggle, as there was no 
hope since the departure and defeat of Don 
Pedro.” 

At these words the constable and the king 
looked at Agenor, as much as to say to him: — 
“You see that he is not there!” 

“You surrender, then?” said the constable. 

“Like brave men, yes, messire, after a ceruna 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


2 8 


time, because the King Don Pedro must not 
accuse us on his return of having betrayed his 
cause without striking a blow.” 

“ They say the king is with you?” demanded 
Don Henry. 

The Spaniard laughed. — “The king is far 
enough,” he said, “and^hat should he come here 
to do, where men besieged as you besiege us have 
only to die of hunger or surrender themselves?” 

Another regard of the constable and of the 
king at Agenor: — “What do you positively 
demand, then?” enquired Duguesclin, “ state 
your conditions.” 

“ A truce of ten days,” said the officer, “ that 
Don Pedro may have time to come to our assist- 
ance, after which we surrender.” 

“Listen,” said the king; “you positively assure 
us that Don Pedro is not in the place?’ 

“ Positively, monseigneur, otherwise we should 
not demand our freedom; for on quitting you will 
see us all, and consequently you would recognise 
the king Now, if we had lied, you would punish 
us; and if you took the king, no doubt you would 
not be too indulgent with him?” 

This last sentence was a question.; the con- 
stable did not reply to it Henry de Transtamara 
had force enough to extinguish the sanguinary 
6clat which this supposition of the capture of Don 
Pedro made to glitter in his eyes. “ We grant 
you the truce,” said the constable, “ but no 
one will leave the castle.” 

“But our provisions, seigneur?” said the 
officer. 

“ We will furnish you with them. We shall 
visit you, but you will not leave.” 

“ ’Tis not an ordinary truce, then,” murmured 
the officer. 

“Why would you wish to leave? to escape! but 
since we give you, after ten days, your lives!” 

“I have nothing more to say,” replied the 
officer; “ I accept; have I your word, messire?” 

“ May I give it, seigneur?” demanded Bertrand 
of the king. 

“Give, constable.” 

“I give it,” replied the constable; “ten days 
truce, and the lives of the whole garrison.” 

“ The whole?” 

“Undoubtedly!’’ exclaimed Mauleon, “there 
can be no restrictions, since you announce your- 
self that Don Pedro is not in the place.” These 
words escaped the young man malgre the respect 
he owed the two chiefs, and he gloried in having 
uttered them, for a visible pallor passed like a 
cloud across the features of Don Rodrigo de 
Sanatrias. He bowed 1 and retired. 

When he had left; — “Are you convinced,” 
demanded the king, “ young, obstinate, poor 
lover?” 

“ Convinced that Don Pedro is at Montiel, yes, 
sire, and that he will be in your hands within a 
week.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, “ this is what I call 
obstinacy.” 

“ He is not a Breton, however,” said Bertrand, 
laughing. 

“ Messeigneurs, Don Pedro plays the same 
game that we wish to play; sure of not escaping 
by force, he tries cunning. You are convinced, in 
his opinion, that he is not within; you grant a 
truce, you keep a negligent guard; well, he will 
pass, oh ! I tell you so, he will pass and fly ; but 
we shall be there, I hope. That which proves to 
you that he is outside Montiel, proves to me that 
he is within.” Agencr quitted the tent of the 
king and the constable, with a warmth easily 


conceivable. “Musaron,” said he, “And the 
highest tent in the army, and attach to it my 
banner in such a way that it may be perfectly 
seen from the castle. Aissa knows it, she will see 
it, she will know me to be near her, and will 
preserve all her courage. As *to our enemies, 
seeing my pennon in the entrenchments, they 
will believe me here, and will not suspect that we 
mean to glide once more into the grotto with the 
spring. Come, my brave Musaron; come, this 
last effort and we touch the end. 

Musaron obeyed; Mauleon’s banner floated 
proudly above the others. 

CHAPTER LXXII. 

THE RUSE OF THE VANQUISHED. 

Henry de Transtamara departed from befoie 
viontiel with the constable and the army. There 
only remained two thousand Bretons and the 
Begue de Vilaines round the earth entrenchments. 

Love had inspired Mauleon, Each of his 
reflections approached the truth. He spoke, in 
fact, as though he had heard all that took place 
in the castle. 

Scarcely arrived after the battle, Don Pedro, 
breathless, choking, foaming with rage, threw 
himself on a carpet in Mothril’s chamber, and 
remained motionless, silent, unapproachable, with 
superhuman efforts to restrain within himself the 
fury and despair that boiled In him. All his 
friends dead! his noble army destroyed! so many 
hopes of vengeance and of glory annihilated in the 
short space taken by the sun to make the tour of 
the horizon! Henceforth, nothing — flight, exile, 
misery; combats of partisans, disgraceful, and 
without object! an unworthy death, on a shameful 
fleid of battle! No more friends! This prince, 
who had never loved, experienced the most cruel 
torments in doubting of the affection of others; 
because kings, for the most part, confound the 
respect due to them with the affection they ought 
to inspire. Having the one, they dispense with 
the other. Don Pedro saw enter his chamber 
Mothril, furrowed with reddened stains. His 
armour was perforated with holes; through some 
issued blood, which was not that of his enemies. 

The Moor was livid. His eyes betokened a 
savage resolution. He was no longer the sub- 
missive, ramping Saracen; he was a man proud 
and intractable, who addressed his equal. “King 
Don Pedro,” he said, “you are vanquished, then?” 

Don Pedro raised his head, and read in the cold 
eyes of the Moor, all the transfiguration of his 
character. “Yes,” replied Don Pedro, “and not 
again to rise.” 

“ You despair?” said Muthril; “your God, then, 
is not so good as ours? I, who am also vanquishel 
and wounded — I do not despair, I have prayed — 
now I am strong.” 

Don Pedro bent down his head with resigna- 
tion: — “ It’s true, ’ he said, “ I had forgotten God. ” 

“ Unhappy king, you know not, however, the 
greatest of your misfortunes. With your crown, 
you will lose your life.” 

Don Pedro started, and launched a terrible 
regard at Mothril: — “You will assassinate me?” 
he said 

“Me! me! your friend! you are getting mad f 
King Don Pedru, you have enemies enough wuh- 
out me, and I should have no need, if 1 wished your 
death, to stain my hands with your blood. Rise, 
and with me give a glance at the plain.” 

In fact, the plain was brilliant with lances and 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


219 


cuirasses, which, glistening in the rays of the 
setting sun, formed by degrees round Montiel a 
circle of iron, more and more circumscribed. 

“ Enclosed! we are lost! Do you see it, Don 
Pedro?” said Mothril; “for this impregnable 
castle, if we had provisions, could neither feed the 
garrison, nor yourself; but they surround you, 
they have seen you, you are lost,” 

Don Pedro did not immediately reply : — “ They 
have seen me? who has seen me?” 

“ Think you it is to take Montiel, this useless 
pile, that the banner of the Beguede Vilaines rests 
here — and stay, see yonder the banner of the 
constable arriving; does the constable want M n- 
tiel. No! ’tis you they seek; yes! ’tis you they 
want.” 


“ They will not have me living,” said Don 
Pedro. 

Mothril, in his turn, said nothing. 

Don Pedro continued with irony : — “ The faithful 
friend, the man full of hope, who cannot even say 
to his king — live and hope!” 

“ I seek the means,” he said, “ of getting him 
from hence.” 

“ You proscribe me?” 

“ I would save my life; I would not ba. forced 
to kill' Donna AYssa, to prevent her fal^pg into 


the bands of the Christians.” 




The name of Aissa brought the blood to the 
forehead of Don Pedro. “’Tis for her,” he mur- 
mured, “ that I am caught in the snare; but, for 
the desire to see her once more, I should have 
speeded to Toledo. Toledo can defend herself — 
they do not die of hunger there. The Toledans 
love me, and die for me; I could, under Toledo, 
give a last battle, and find a glorious death; who 
know r s, that of my enemy, the bastard of Alphonso, 
that of Henry de Transtamara! a woman has 
brought me to my ruin?” 

“I would sooner have seen you at Toledo,” said 
the Moor, coldly, “for I would have arranged your 
affairs in your absence - and my own.” 

“ Whereas, you will do nothing for me here,” 
exclaimed Don Pedro, whose fury began to take 
a free course. “ Well, miserable, I shall finish my 
days here, oe it so, but I shall have punished you 
for your crimes and your disloyalty; I shailiiave 
tasted a last happiness; Aissa, whom you have 
offered me as a lure, shall be mine this very 
night.” 

“ You deceive yourself,” said the Moor, calmly, 
“ Aissa will not be yours.” 

“Do you forget that I command here three 
hundred soldiers?” 

“ Do you forget that you cannot leave this 
chamber but at my pleasure, that I shall stretch 
you dead at my feet if you stir, that I shall throw 
your body to the soldiers of the constable, who will 
receive my present with transports of joy?” 

“A traitorf” murmured Don Pedro. 

“Madman! blind! ingrat!” exclaimed Mothril, 
“say your preserver, then. You wish to fly, you 
would take all with your liberty fortune, crown, 
glory; fly then, and lose no time; do not agai 
irritate God by debaucheries, by exactions, and 
insult not the only friend that remains to you.” 

“A friend, who thus speaks to me!” 

“Would you rather that he flattered you, to 
deliver you up?” 

“ I resign myself. What will you do?” 

“ I will send a herald to these Bretons who 
watch you. They think you are here, let us de- 
ceive them; if we find them resigning the hope of 
so rich a capture, lot us profit by the moments; 
escape on the first opportunity their negligence 


will afford you. Come, have you a man here 
devoted, intelligent, whom you could send to 
them?” 

“ I have Rodrigo Sanatrias, a captain who owes 
me everything.” 

“ That is no reason. Does he still hope some- 
thing from you?” 

Don Pedro smiled bitterly Its true,” he 
said, “ our only friends are those who hope. Well, 
I will make him hope.” 

“Very well, let him come!” Mothril, whilst 
the king called Sanatrias, made some Moors 
ascend, whom he placed as surveillants round 
A'issa’s chamber. 

. Don Pedro passed a portion of the night in 
discussing with the Spaniard the means of enter- 
ing into negotiation with the enemy.- Rodrigo 
was equally ingenious as faithful; he comprehended, 
besides, that the safety of Don Pedro was the 
safety of all; but that, to have the vanquished 
king, the conquerors would sacrifice ten thousand 
men, demolish the rock, destroy all by starvation 
and the sword, but would attain their object. At 
day-break Don Pedro saw, with despair, the 
banners of Don Henry. To turn a king from his 
road, and a constable from his plans, they must 
have resolved to take, in Montiel, something besides 
a garrison. Don Pedro immediately despatched 
Rodrigo Sanatrias, who fulfilled his mission with 
the address and the success we have seen. He 
brought to the castle news, that filled all the 
prisoners with joy. Don Pedro did not cease 
demanding of him the details, and from each he 
drew favourable inductions; the departure of the 
troops of the king and of the constable, finished 
proving to him how prudent and efficacious had 
been the advice of the Moor. 

“At present,” said Mothril, “we have nothing 
but an ordinary enemy to fear; let a dark night 
come, and we are saved.” 

Don Pedro could not contain his joy; he was 
become affectionate — communicative with the 
Moor: “Listen!” he said to him, “ I see that I 
have treated you ill, you deserve better than to be 
the minister of a fallen king; I will marry Aissa, 

I will unite myself to you by the strongest ties. 
God has abandoned me, I will abandon God; I 
will make myself the worshipper of Mahomet, 
since ’tis he who saves me through you. The 
Saracens have seen me at work; they know if I 
am a good captain, and a valiant soldier, I will 
assist them to reconquer Spain; and, if they judge 
me worthy to command them, I will place on the 
throne of Castile a mahometan king, to disgrace 
Christianity, which busies itself about intestine 
quarrels, instead of attending seriously to the 
interests of religion.” 

Mothril listened, with a gloomy defiance, to the 
promises dictated by fear or enthusiasm: — “Save 
yourself first,” he said, “ we will then see.” 

“I would,” replied Don Pedro, “ that for my 
promises, you had a more certain pledge than my 
simple word; send for Aissa, before you I will 
engage my faith with her, you shall write my 
promise, and I will sign it; we will make an 
alliance together, instead of an arrangement.” 
Don Pedro had again found, in thus engaging 
himself, all his cunning, all his former strength; 
he knew well that, by holding out to Mothril the 
hope of a future, he prevented him from entirely 
abandoning his cause, and that, without this hope, 
Mothril was a man to deliver him to his enemies. 

On his side, Mothril had h.ad the same idea, but 
he saw the means of saving Don Pedro, that is, of 
rekindling a war, the whole fruits of which would 


220 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


i*ll to his cause, whilst, Don Pedro taken or dead, 
the Saracens had no longer a pretext to continue 
a ruinous war against enemies, henceforth invinci- 
ble. Don Pedro was a skilful captain; Mothril 
knew it well. Don Pedro knew the resources of 
the Moors; he might, by being reconciled with 
the Christians, do them an incalculable injury. 
Besides, Mothril was bound to him by the chain of 
crime and ambition, a mysterious, all-powerful 
link, the extent and force of which we cannot 
sound. He listened favourably to Don Pedro, 
therefore, and said to him: — “ I accept your offers 
with gratitude, my king, and I will put you in a 
position to realize them. You wish to see Aissa, 
you shall see her; only do not alarm her modesty 
by too passionate a discourse; remember that she 
is scarcely recovered from a long and cruel illness.” 

“ I will remember all,” replied Don Pedro. 

Mothril went to seek Aissa, who was uneasy at 
not receiving any news of Mauleon. The sound 
of weapons, the steps of attendants and soldiers, 
announced to her the imminence of the danger; 
but, above all, what she feared, was the arrival of 
Don Pedro, and she was ignorant of this arrival. 
Mothril, who had made her so many promises, 
must again lie to her; he had to fear that she 
would betray before the king the scene of the 
death of Maria de Padilla. This interview' was to 
be feared, but he could not refuse it to the king. 
Until now he had avoided all explanation; but, 
this time, Don Pedro would question, Aissa would 
speak: — “Aissa,” he said, to the young girl, “I 
come to announce to you that Don Pedro is 
vanquished, concealed in this castle. 5 * 

Aissa turned pale. 

“He wishes to see you, and speak to you; do 
not refuse him, for he commands here; besides, he 
departs to night. It is better to remain on good 
terms with him.” 

Ais.sa appeared to believe in the words of the 
Moor; a painful agitation, however, apprised her 
that a fresh misfortune awaited her: — “I will not 
speak to the king, 5 ’ she said, “ nor see him, before 
I have again seen the Sire de Mauleon, w hom you 
promised to bring here, conquered or conqueror.” 

“But Don Pedro waits.' 5 

“ What matter?” 

“ He commands, I tell you.” 

“ I have a means of escaping from his authority; 
you know it well. What did you promise me?’ 5 

“ I will keep my promises, Aissa; but, assist me.” 

“ I will assist no one to deceive.” 

“ ’Tis well ! deliver up my head, then ; I am 
prepared to die.” This threat always had its 
effect on Aissa; accustomed to the expeditious 
mode of Moorish justice, she knew that a sign 
from the master lopped a head; she supposed that 
of Mothril deeply compromised. 

“ What will the king say to me? how will he 
speak to me?” she asked. 

“In my presence. 55 

“This is not enough; f should wish there to be 
many present at the interview.” 

“ I promise it you,” 

“ I would be sure of it.” 

“How?” 

“ This chamber leads to the platform of the 
castle; furnish this platform with men; let my 
women accompany me. My litter being carried 
there, 1 will listen to what the king may say to 

me.” 

“ It shall be done as you desire, Donna Aissa.” 

“ Now, what wilL Don Pedro say to me? 55 

“ He will propose to marry you.” 

Aissa made a violent gesture of denial. 


“ I know it well,” interrupted Mothril ; “ but let 
him say it. Remember that he departs to night.’ 5 

“But I*will not reply. 55 

“ On the contrary, you will reply with courtesy. 
Regard all these Spanish men at-arms and Bre- 
tons who surround the castle, these men will take 
us by violence, and put us to death if they find 
the king with us. Let Don Pedro go to save 
ourselves.' 5 

“But the Sire de Mauleon?” 

“ He cannot save us if Don Pedro is here 55 

Aissa interrupted Mothril: — “ You lie,” she 
said. “ and you cannot even flatter me to unite him 
to me. Where is he? what is he doing? does he 
live?” 

At this moment, Musaron, by order of his 
master, raised in the air the banner. well known 
by Aissa. 

The young girl observed this cherished signal. 
She joined her hands in ecstacy, and exclaimed : — 
“ He sees me! he hears me! Pardon me, Moth- 
ril, I had wrongly suspected you. Go and tell 
the king that I follow you.” 

Mothril turned his eyes towards the plain, saw 
the standard, recognised it, became pale, and 
stammered: “I go.” and then with fury: — 
“Cursed Christian!” he exclaimed, when out of 
hearing of Aissa: — “You still pursue me, then? 
Oh ! I shall escape you. 55 


CHAPTER LXXIII. 

THE ESCAPE. 

Don Pedro received Aissa on the platform, in the 
midst of the witnesses she had Required. His love 
was expressed without passion, his desires were 
almost stagnant by a pre-occupation of the in- 
tended evasion. 

Aissa, therefore, had nothing to reproach Moth- 
ril with in this respect; and she did not cease 
regarding, during the whole conference, that blest 
banner of Mauleon which floated resplendent in the 
sun at the extremity of the ramparts. Aissa 
distinguished under this banner a man-at-arms, 
who, at a distance, she might take for Agenor; 
thus had our chevalier calculated. Thus finding 
means of calming Aissa by disclosing his 
presence to her, and Mothril, by removing his 
suspicions of any concealed enterprise, Don 
Pedro had decided that three of his most devoted 
friends should hold themselves in* readiness to 
reconnoitre at night the earthen ramparts. There 
was really a point of the rampart more negligently 
guarded than the others, this was at the rock 
that looks perpendicularly into the ravine. Many 
advised the king to fly this side by means of a 
rope attached to the windows of Donna Aissa; 
but when arrived at the base the king would have 
no horse to escape rapidly. They then resolved 
to sound the ramparts at the feeblest point, and 
to open for themselves a passage there, through 
which, the sentinels removed or poignarded, the 
king would fly, mounted on a good horse. But 
the day’s sun promised a clear night, which pre- 
vented the execution of the project. Suddenly, as 
if fortune ^vas determined to favour every wish of 
Don Pedrc\ a west wind drove up burning clouds 
of sand on the plain, and the coppery looking 
clouds, in long streams, appeared at the extremity 
of the horizon like the advance guard of a terrible 
enemj'. As the sun fell by degrees behind the 
towers of Toledo, these thickening clouds black- 
ened and enveloped the sky like a sombre mantle. 


THE. IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


221 


heavy rain fell about nine o’clock in the 
©recing. 

Agenor and Musaron had, immediately after 
gun-set, ensconced themselves side by side in their 
spring-grotto hiding place. The chosen men of | 
Begue de Yilaines had dug, under the exterior 
wall of the rampart, a shelter in the earth dried 
up by the noon day’s sun, so that there was round 
Montiel an uninterrupted chain of concealed men. 
Apparently, and from the orders of Agenor, who 
had taken the initiative in all since the departure 
of the constable, sentinels guarded, or seemed to 
guard, from point to point, the line of communica- 
tion. The rain had compelled the sentinels to 
take to their cloaks; some of them had lain down 
in these cloaks. At ten o’clock Agenor and Mu- 
saron heard the rock echo under the steps of 
men. They listened more attentively, and 
finished by seeing pass three officers of Don 
Pedro, who, with a thousand precautions, and 
rather crawl i ng than walking, were exploring the 
rampart at a place previously noted. The sen- 
tinel at this place had been intentionally removed; 
there was only the officer concealed under a 
mound of earth outside. The officers observed 
that this side was not guarded; they joyfully 
communicated to each other this discovery, 
and .Agenor heard them boasting of it on re- 
mounting the steep s-taircase. One of them said 
in a low tone: — “It is slippery, and the horses 
will hav® some difficulty in keeping their feet on 
descending.” 

‘‘Yes, but they will run the better on plain 
ground,” replied another. 

These words filled the heart of Agenor with 
joy. He sent Musaron to the entrenchments, to 
announce to the nearest Breton officer that some- 
thing fresh was about to take place. The 
officer, lying down, communicated the news to 
his neighbour, who did the same, and thus, all round 
Montiel, circulated the information given by 
Agenor. Half-an-bour had not elapsed when 
Agenor heard, at the summit of the platform, a 
horse’s hoof strike against the rock ; it seemed to 
him that this sound tore his heart, so sharp and 
painful was the impression. The noise ap- 
proached — the steps of other horses were heard, 
but only perceptible to Agenor and Musaron. 

In fa<k, the king had given orders for the horses’ 
hoofs to be enveloped in tow, that they might not 
sound so loud. 

The king arrived the last; a little dry cough, 
which he could not restrain, betrayed his’presence. 
lie walked 1 with difficulty, supporting his horse by 
the bridle, whose hind feet slid from under him in 
the steep descent. As the fugitives passed before 
the grot to, Musaron and Agenor recognised them. 
When the turn of Don Pedro arrived, they dis- 
tinctly saw his pale but assured face. Arrived at 
the entrenchments, the two first fugitives mounted 
on horseback and cleared the parapet; but they 
had scarcely gone ten paces ere they fell into a 
ditch, ready prepared, where twenty men-at-arms 
gagged them and took them away without noise. 

Don Pedro, who suspected nothing, jumped on 
his horse in bis turn; suddenly, he was seized by 
Agenor, who enclosed him with his two nervous 
arms, whilst Musaron bound his mouth with a 
belt. This done, Musaron pricked his horse with 
the point of a dagger, the horse bounded over the 
rampart and fled, making his gallop heard over 
the rocky ground. Don Pedro struggled with 
the strength of despair. 

“ Take care,” whispered Agenor to him, “ I 
shall be forced to kill you if you make a noise.” 


Don Pedro succeeded in making these words 
heard, in a choking voice: “lam the king, treat 
me as a knight.” 

“ I know well you are the king,” said Agenor, 
“ and I expected you here. On the faith of a 
knight you shall not be ill-treated.” He took 
the king on his robust shoulders, and thus crossed 
the line of ramparts, in the midst of tire officers, 
who bounded with joy. “Silence! silence!” said 
Agenor, “no exclamation, gentlemen — no cries! 
I have done the work of the constable, do not let 
mine fail.” 

He carried his prisoner to the tent of Begue de 
Yilaines, who hung round his neck and tenderly 
embraced him. 

“Quick! quick!” exclaimed the captain, “ cou- 
riers to the king who is before Toledo; couriers 
to the constable who holds the country, to inform 
him that the war is finished.” 

CHAPTER LXX1Y. 

DIFFICULTY. 

Whilst the whole camp of the Bretons passed the 
night in the intoxication of triumph, and Don 
Pedro in the agony of terror, some cavaliers 
mounted on the best horses of trie army went to 
apprize Don Henry and the constable. 

Agenor had passed the night with the prisoner, 
who, preserving a ferocious silence, refused all 
consolation. They could not leave bound a king, 
a captain; they untied the prisoner, therefore, after 
having made him swear by his word as a gentle- 
man that he would make no effort to escape. 

“But,” said the Begue de Vilaines to his 
officers, “we know what the word of Don Pedro 
is worth; double the post, and let the tent be 
surrounded in such a way r , that he will not even 
dream of flying.” 

They found the constable about three leagues 
from Montiel, driving before him, like flocks >f 
sheep, the remains of the army vanquished the day 
before, and completing, by the capture of | risoners, 
at a rich ransom, the gam of this important day. 
For the Toledans had refused to open their gates 
even to the vanquished, their allies, so much did 
they fear a deception in usage in barbarous times, 
in wffiich cunning had as large a share as force. 

The constable had no sooner heard the news 
than he cried: “ This Mauleon had more wit than 
us!” And he pushed his horse towards Montiel, 
with a joy difficult to describe. (Scarcely arrived, 
the rising day silvered already the summits of the 
mountains, the constable took Mauleon in his arms, 
modest in his triumph. “ Thanks,” be said to 
him, “ messire, for your courageous perseverance, 
and for your foresigh Where is the prisoner?” 
he added. 

“In the tent of Begue de Yilaines,” replied 
Mauleon; “but he sleeps, or feigns to sleep.' 5 

“ I will not see him,” said Bertrand; “ it is right 
that the first person to have an interview with 
Don Pedro should be Don Henry, his conqueror 
and his master. Have they placed a good guard? 
Certain evil minds have only to say a good prayer 
to the devil to be delivered.” 

“ There are thirty knights round the tent, 
messire,” replied Agenor. “Don Pedro will not 
escape, unless one of Satan’s angels drags him by 
the hair, as the prophet, Habacuc formerly; and 
we should then see him go.” 

“ And I would send to him, through the air,’* 
said Musaron, “an arrow that would make him 
arrive in hell before the angel of darkness.” 


222 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


“ Let them dress a camp-bed for me before the 
tent,” said the constable ; 44 1 will, like the 

others, guard the prisoner, to present him myself 
to Don 'Henry. 5 ’ The constable was obeyed, and 
his bed, a eod of planks and heath, w r as raised 
the door of the tent. “• A propos” said Bertrand, 
4 he is almost a miscreant, he is capable of killing 
himself; have they taken away his weapons?” 

44 They dared not, seigneur, his head is sacred ; 
he has been proclaimed king before the altar of 
God.’ 5 

44 ’Tis right; besides, we owe him, until the first 
orders of Don Henry, every respect and assistance.” 

44 You see, seigneur,” said Agenor, “how that 
Spaniard lied, when he assured you that Don Pedro 
was not at Montiel.” 

44 Therefore, we will hang this Spaniard and 
the whole garrison,” coolly said the Begue de 
Yilaines. 44 In lying, he has disengaged the word 
of the constable.” 

44 Monseigneur,” replied Agenor, warmly, “these 
unfortunate soldiers are guilty of nothing when a 
chief orders. Besides, if they surrender, you will 
commit a murder; and if they do not surrender, 
we shall not take them.” 

44 They will be taken by famine,” replied the 
constable. 

The idea of seeing Aissa perish by hunger 
drove Mauleon beyond the limits of his natural 
discretion. 44 Oh ! monseigneurs,’’ he said, 44 you 
will not commit a cruelty.” 

44 We will punish lying and disloyalty,” said the 
constable. “ Besides ought we not to rejoice that 
this lie will furnish us with an opportunity of 
punishing the Saracen, Mothril? I will send a 
herald to this miserable to inform him that Don 
Podro is taken; that if he has been taken it is be- 
cause he was at Montiel; that, consequently, they 
tr Id me a lie, and that to set an example to all 
felons, the garrison shall be decimated on sur- 
rendering, or condemned to perish by hunger if it 
does not surrender.” 

44 And Donna Aissa?” interrupted Mauleon, 
pale with alarm and love. 

44 We will spare the women, be it well under- 
stood,” replied Duguesclin; “for cursed be the 
soldier who does not spare old men, women, and 
children.” 

44 But Mothril will not spare Aissa, monseig- 
neur; it would be to leave her there for some one 
after him; you do not know him, he will kill her. 
Now you have promised to grant me what [ should 
demand, messire; I demand the life of Aissa.” 

44 And I grant it you, my friend; but how will 
you act to save her?” 

44 1 shall request your lordship to send to Mothril 
no herald but myself, and to leave me free to speak 
as I choose. In this way I engage a prompt sub- 
mission of the Moor and the garrison. But for 
pity’s sake, monseigneur, the lives of the unfor- 
tunate soldiers? they have done nothing.” 

“I see I must yield. You have rendered me so 
many services that I can refuse you nothing. The 
king, on his part, owes you as much as I do, since 
you have taken Don Perlro, without which our 
victory of yesterday was incomplete, I can, then, 
in his name and my own, grant what you desire. 
Aissa is yours. The soldiers, the officers even of 
the garrison shall save their lives and baggage; 
but Mothril shall be hung.” 

44 Seigneur — ” 

“Oh! on this, demand nothing more of me — 
you will not obtain it; 1 should offend God if I 
spared this villain.” 

44 Mans eigne ur, the first thing he will ask me, 


will be if his life will be spared; what shall I 
reply?” 

“You will reply as you choose, Messire de 
Mauleon.” 

44 But you would have spared him according to 
the truce made with Rodrigo Sanatrias.” 

44 Him! never! I said the garrison. Mothril is a 
Saracen, I do not reckon him amongst the de- 
fenders of the castle; besides, I have an account to 
balance between God and myself, I tell you. 
When once you have Donna Aissa, my friend, no- 
thing regards you farther. Leave me to act.” 

44 Once more, messire, allow me to entreat you. 
Yes, this Mothril is a miserable: yes, God would 
look with favour on his punishment; but he is 
disarmed, he can no longer injure.” 

44 You may as well speak to a statue, Sire de 
Mauleon,” replied the constable. 44 Allow me to 
repose, I beg. As to the words you will say to the 
garrison, I leave you free. There!” 

There was no reply to this. Agenor knew well 
that Duguesclin, fixed on a project, remained in- 
flexible, and never turned back. He also knew 
that Mothril, on learning that Don Pedro had 
fallen into the hands of the Bretons, would be in- 
different to everything, being convinced that they 
would not spare him. Mothril, in fact, was one of 
those men who knew how to bear the weight of 
the hatred they inspired, and submit to the con- 
sequences. Implacable with others, he resigned 
himself to receive nj quarter. Again, Mothril 
would never consent to yield Aissa. The position 
of Agenor was most difficult. 

“If l tell a falsehood, I dishonour myself,” he 
said; “if I promise Mothril his life without keeping 
my word to him, I become unworthy the love of 
woman, and the esteem of men.” He was plunged 
in these cruel perplexities, when the trumpets 
announced the arrival of the king, Don Henry, 
before the tent. The day was already advanced, 
and they saw from the camp, the platform on 
which Mothril and Don Rodrigo were walking, 
engaged in a warm conversation. 

“That which the constable has not granted 
you,” said Musaron to his master, whom he 
observed to be sorrowful, 44 the king, Don Henry, 
will grant you; ask, and you will obtain; what 
matters the mouth that says yes, provided, it has 
said a yes , that you can, without lying, report to 
Mothril? 5 ’ 

44 Let us try,” said Agenor. And he knelt near 
the stirrup of Henry, whom a squire assisted to 
dismount. 

44 Good news,” said the king, 44 as it appears.” 

44 Yes, monseigneur.” 

“I will recompense you, Mauleon; demand an 
tarldom of me if you will.” 

44 1 ask you for the life of Mothril.” 

44 ’Tls more than an earldom,” replied Henry; 
but I grant it you.” 

44 Depart quickly, sir,” said Musaron, in his 
master’s ear, 44 for the constable approaches, and 
it would be too late if he heard.” 

Agenor kissed the hand of the king, who, dis- 
mounting, exclaimed: — 44 Good day, dear constable, 
it appears that the traitor is ours?” 

44 Yes, monseigneur,” said Bertrand, who feigned 
not to have seen Agenor conversing with the ' 
king. 

The young man commenced running as though 
he carried off a treasure. He was entitled, as 
an acknowledged herald, to take with him two 
trumpeters; he chose them, made them precede 
him, and followed by the inseparable Musaron,. he 
climbed the path to the first door of the castle. 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


223 


CHAPTER LXXV. 

THE DIPLOMACY OF LOVE. 

They did not delay opening to him, and he could, 
in advancing on the path, judge of the difficulties 
of the ground. Sometimes the path was not more 
than a foot wide, and on every side the rock 
became perpendicular as it rose above the hollow 
ravine or funnel, the Bretons, little accustomed to 
mountains, felt a vertigo seize upon them. 

“Love renders us very imprudent, sir,” said 
Musaron, to his master; “however, God is above 
us all.” 

“Do you forget that our persons are inviolable?” 

“Eh! sir, what has the cursed Moor to care 
about, and what do you see inviolable, for him, on 
the earth ?” 

Agenor imposed silence on his squire, continued 
to climb the path, and reached the platform on 
which Mothril awaited him, having recognized 
him whilst ascending. 

“ The Frenchman,” he murmured; “ what does 
his presence in the castle signify?” 

The trumpets sounded; Mothril made a sign 
that he was listening. 

“I come,” said Agenor, “on the part of the 
constable, to say this to you: ‘I had made a truce 
with my enemies, on the condition that no one left 
the castle, I had granted the lives of all, under 
this condition; to day I must change my mind, 
since you have failed in your word.’ ” 

Mothril became pale, and replied: — “ In what?” 

“ Last night,” continued Agenor, “three cava- 
liers passed the ramparts, despite our sentinels.” 

“Well!” said Mothril, making a violent effort 
in himself, “you musv punish them with death, for 
they have perjured themselves.” 

“ Tli at would be easy,” said Agenor, “ if we 
held them; but they have fled.” 

“Why did you not arrest them?” exclaimed 
Mothril, unable to entirely suppress his joy, after 
experiencing so much alarm. 

“ Because our guards, trusting in your word, 
watched less vigilantly tha usual, and, according 
to the argument of the Senor Don Rodrigo here, 
none of you had any interest in escaping, all their 
lives being safe.” 

“You conclude?” said the Moor. 

“By changing something in the conditions of 
the truce.” 

“Oh! I suspected it,” said Mothril, bitterly. 
“ The clemency of the Christians is as fragile as a 
glass ; we must be careful we do not break it in 
drinking. You are come to tell us that several 
soldiers— were they soldiers ? — having escaped from 
Montiel, you will be forced to put us all to 
death?” 

“ And in the first place, Saracen,” said Agenor, 
hurt at this reproach, and this supposition, “ in 
the first place, you ought to know who are the 
fugitives.” 

“ How should I know them?” 

“ Count ) our garrison.” 

“ ’Tis not I who command.” 

“ You do not make a part of your garrison, 
then?” said Agenor, quickly, “you are not com- 
prised in the truce, then?” 

“You are cunning for a young man.” 

“ I am become so from mistrust, from seeing the 
Saracens; but reply.” 

“ I am the chief, in fact,” said Mothril, who 
feared to lose the benefits of a capitulation, if one 
were possible. 

“ You see that I had some reason to be cunning, 


since yon lie. But this is not the question ; you 
admit that the conditions have been violated.” 

“ ’Tis you who say so, Christian.” 

^ “ And you ought to believe me,” added Mau- 
leon, with haughtiness. “ Here, then, is the order 
of the constable, our chief; the place shall be 
surrendered to-day, or a rigorous blockade will 
be commenced.” 

“ This is all?” said Mothril. 

“ This is all.” 

“You will starve us?” 

« Yes.” ' 

“ And if we determine to die?” 

“ You are free.” 

Mothril regarded Agenor with a peculiar ex- 
pression, which the latter perfectly comprehended. 
— “ All?” he said, dwelling on the word. 

“All!” replied Mauleon; “but if you die, it 
will be your own fault. Don Pedro will not 
assist you, believe me.” 

“ You think so?” 

“ I am sure of it.” 

“ Why?” 

“ Because we have an army to oppose to him, 
and he has none; and that before the day he 
obtains one, you will all be starved to death.” 

“You reason justly, Christian.” 

“ Save your life, then, since it is in your power.” 

“ Ah ! you offer us our lives?” 

“ I offer them to you.” 

“ On the faith of whom? — of the constable?” 

“ On the faith of the king, who has just 
arrived.” 

“ In fact, he has arrived,” said Mothril, w ith 
inquietude; “but I do not see him.” 

“ Look at his tent, or rather that of the Begue 
de Vilaines.” 

“ Yes, yes. You are sure they will give us our 
lives?” 

“ I guarantee it.” 

“ And myself, also?” 

“ To you, Mothril, I have the king’s word.” 

“We may retire where we like?” 

“Where you please.” 

“ With followers, baggage, and treasures?” 

“ Yes, Saracen.” 

“ ’Tis very handsome!” 

“You do not think so. You are mad! why- 
should we ask you to come to us to-day, when, 
dead or alive, we shall have you by remaining 
here a month.” 

“ Oh ! you may fear Don Pedro.” 

“ I assure you we do not fear him.” 

“ Christian, I will reflect.” 

“ If in two hours you have not surrendered,” 
said the impatient young man, “ look upon your- 
self as dead. The iron enclosure will not open.” 

“Good, good! two hours! ’tis no great gene- 
rosity,” said Mothril, questioning the horizon 
with anxiety, as if from the plain a saviour was t<? 
arise. 

“ This is your only reply?” said Agenor. 

“ In two hours,” faltered Mothril, pensive. 

“Oh! sir, he will surrender; you have per- 
suaded him , 3 glided Musaron into his master’s 
ear. 

Suddenly Mothril looked towards the camp of 
the Bretons, with an attention he did not dis- 
semble :—“ Oh ! oh !” he murmured, pointing out 
to Rodrigo the tent of the Begue de Vilaines. 

The Spaniard leaned over the parapet the 
better to observe. 

“ Your Christians are tearing each other, as it 
appears.” said Mothril; “see how they run 
towards that tent.” 


224 


THE IRON HAND; OR. THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


In fact, a crowd of soldiers and officers were 
running towards the tent with signs of the great- 
est anxiety. The tent was agitated, as if shaken 
in the interior by wrestlers. 

Agenor saw the constable rush to it with an 
appearance of anger: — “There is something 
strange and frightful passing in the tent where 
Don Pedro is,” he said; “ let us go, Musaron.” 

The attention of the Moor was diverted by this 
incomprehensible movement; that of Rodrigo 
was still more so. Agenor took advantage of 
theii inattention to descend with his Bretons the 
difficult steep. In the middle of the descent he 
heard a horrible cry mount from the plain to- 
wards the sky. It w'as time that he arrived at the 
barriers; scarcely was the last door closed behind 
him, ere he heard the thundering voice of Mothril 
cry:— “ Allah! Allah! the traitor deceived me; the 
king, Don Pedro, has been taken. Allah! Let 
them arrest the Frenchman, and let him serve us 
as a hostage. To the doors! close! close!” 

But Agenor had cleared the ramparts; he was 
in safety; he could even see the whole of the terri- 
ble spectacle of which, from the summit of the 
platform, the Moor had been an astonished spec- 
tator. “Mercy on us l” said Agenor, trembling, 
and raising his hands towards heaven, “ another 
minute and we were taken and lost; what I see 
there in the tent would have excused Mothril for 
his bloodiest reprisals.” 


CHAPTER LXXVI. 

WHAT THEY SAW IN THE TENT OF THE BEGUE 
DE VILAINE8. 

The king, Don Henry, after having quitted 
Agenor, and having given him the pardon of 
Mothril, wiped his face, and said to the constable: 
— “ My friend, my heart beats very strongly, I am 
about to see in his humiliation him whom I mor- 
tally hate; ’tis a joy mixed with bitterness, and I 
cannot explain the two feelings at this moment.’ 

“This proves, sire,” said the constable, “that 
the heart of your majesty is noble and grand; 
without that it would contain nothing but the joy 
of triumph.” 

“ It is strange,” added the king; “but I cannot 
enter that tent without distrust, and, I repeat it, 
my heart oppressed. How is he?” 

“ Sire, he is seated on a stool, he keeps his 
head buried in his two hands. He appears di- 
spirited overcome.” 

Henr} de Transtamara made a sign with 
his hand, and every one moved away: “Con- 
stable,” he said, in a low tone; “a last advice. I beg 
of you. I would spare his life; but must I exile 
him, or imprison him in a fortress? ’ 

“ Ask me not for advice, sire king,” replied the 
constable; “for I know not how to give it you. 
You are wiser thaaj I am, and you are in the 
presence of a brother. God will inspire you.” 

“Your words have decided me without .drawing 
back, constable, thanks.” The king raised the 
door- screen of the tent, and entered. 

Don Pedro had not quitted the posture de- 
scribed to the king by Duguesclin. His despair, 
however, was not silent; he betrayed himself 
outside by exclamations, now sullen, now furious. 
It seemed like a commencement of madness. 

Henry’s step caused Don Pedro to raise his head. 

The moment he recognised his conqueror by 
his majestic countenance, and his crest composed 
of a golden lion* fury took possession of him. 


“ You come,” he said, “you have dared to 
come.” 

Henry made no reply, and preserved his silent 
and reserved attitude. 

“ I vainly called to you in the melee ,” continued 
Don Pedro, getting animated by degrees; “but 
you have only courage to insult a vanquished 
enemy, and, even at this moment, you hide your 
face that I may not see your palor. 

Henry slowly undid the fastenings of his 
helmet, and placed it on a table. His fate was 
indeed pale, but his eyes preserved a mild and 
humane serenity. 

This calmness exasperated Don Pedro; he rose: 
— “ Yes,” he said, “ I recognize the bastard of 
my father, he who called himself king of Cast’.le, 
forgetting that he w'ould be no king of Castile as 
long as I lived.” 

To the outrageous insults of his enemy, Henry 
attempted to oppose patience; but rage mounted 
by degrees to his forehead, and drops of cold 
sweat began to trickle down his face: — “Bew r are,” 
he said, in a trembling voice, “ you are here, with 
me, do not forget it; I do not insult you, and you 
dishonour your birth by words unworthy of us 
both. 5 ’ 

“Bastard!” cried Don Pedro, “bastard! bas- 
tard!” 

“Miserable! you will then unchain my fury?” 

“Oh! I am very tranquil,” said Don Pedro, 
approaching wuth sparkling eyes and livid lips; 
“ you will not allow your rage to go tarther than 
the care of your preservation demands; you are a 
coward.” 

“You lie!” vociferated Don Henry, beyond all 
restraint. 

In reply, Don Pedro seized Henry by the throat, 
and Don Henry enclosed Don Pedro with his two 
arms: “Ah!” said the vanquished king, “we wanted 
this battle; you will see that it shall be decisive.” 
They struggled so furiously, that the tent was 
shaken, the roof oscillated; and, at the noise, the 
constable, the Begue, and several officers, ran to 
it. To enter, they were obliged to cut with their 
swords through the cu ains of the tent. The two 
enemies closed, enlaced like tw T o serpents, held 
themselves fast to the very curtains, with their 
feet armed with spurs. They then observed fully 
the in erior of the tent and the murderous 
struggle. The constable uttered a loud cry. A 
thousand soldiers fled immediately in the direc- 
tion of the tent. It was then that Mothril could 
see from the summit of the platform; it was then 
that Mauleon, also, began to see from the ex- 
tremity of the entrenchment. The tw 7 o adver- 
saries rolled and w r restled, seeking, every time they 
had an arm free, to lay hold of a weapon. Don 
Pedro was the luckiest; he contrived to get Henry 
de Transtamara under him, and, retaining him 
with his knee, he drew from his belt a small , 
dagger to strike him. But the danger gave 
strength to Henry; he once more threw back his 
brother, and held him by the loins. Entwined 
together, they breathed in the face of each other 
the devouring fire of their impotent hatred; — 

“ We must finish it,” exclaimed Don Pedro, 
finding that no one dared to touch them, so 
greatly did royal majesty, and the horror of the 
situation, prevail over the assistants: “ to-day, 10 
more king of Castile, but no more usurper; I 
cease to reign; but I am avenged; I shall be 
killed, but I shall have drank your blood;” and, 
with an unexpected vigour, he threw under him 
his brother, exhausted in the struggle, squeezed 
I his throat, and raised his hand to bury his dagger 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 225 



lit this moment, Duguesclin, seeing him already 
*twching with the point of his dagger in the 
coat of mail and cuirass, to find a defect, Du- 
guesclin seized with his nervous hand the foot of 
Don Pedro, and tripped him up. The unhappy 
man rolled in his turn under Henry: — “I neither 
make nor unmake kings,” said the constable, in a 
sullen and trembling voice; “I assist my seig- 
neur. ' • 

Henry, enabled to breathe, had recovered 
strength, and drawn his cutlass. There was a 
flash ; the steel plunged its whole length into the 
throat of Don Pedro, a gush of blood spouted to 
the eyes of the vanquisher, stifling the terrible 
cry that escaped from the lips of Don Pedro. 
The hand of the wounded man relaxed, his eye 
fell lustreless, and his forehead, contracted with a 
frown, fell back. His head was beard to strike 
heavily on the floor. 

* Ob! what have you done?'' said Agenor whc 

14 


had rushed into the tent, and regarded, with coi> 
on end, the corpse in a sea of blood, and th« 
vanquisher kneeling, his weapon in his right hand, 
whilst, with the left, he endeavoured to support 
himself. 

A fearful silence reigned over the whole 
assembly. The fratricide king let fall his bloody 
poignard ; they then saw a stream of blood issue 
from beneath the corpse, and glide gently along 
the slope of the rocky ground. Everyone recoiled 
before this blood, which still smoked, as if it had 
preserved the fire of hatred and of fury. Don 
Henry, being raised, seated himself in a corner of 
the tent, and hid his clouded face in his two ha^ds; 
he could not support the light of day, and the 
regards of those present. 

The constable, as gloomy as himself, but more 
energetic, gently raised him, and dismissed th* 
spectators of this terrible scene: — “ Certainly.” 
he said, “it would have been better to hnT« abed 


226 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


this blood in battle, with your sword or your 
battle-axe; but God does his work in his own 
way, and what he has done is accomplished. 
Come, Sire, and take courage.” 

“ ’Twas he who resolved to die,” murmured the 
king, “ I went to pardon him; see that his remains 
be not long exposed to the regards— let an honour- 
able interment— 

“Sire, trouble not yourself about all this — 
forget; let our work proceed.” 

The king retired in front of a line of soldiers, 
silent and amazed, and buried himself in another 
tent. 

Duguesclin sent for the provost of the Bretons : 
—“You will cut off this head,” he said, pointing 
to the body of Don Pedro, “ and you, Begue de 
Vilaines, will despatch it to Toledo. ’Tis the 
custom of the country, where, at least, usurpers, 
in the name of the dead, have no longer the right 
to come and trouble the reign and the repose of 
the living.” 

He had scarcely finished, when a Spaniard of 
the fortress came to say, on the part of the go- 
vernor, that the garrison would laj> down their 
arms at eight o’clock in the evening, according to 
the conditions offered by the herald of the con- 
stable. 

CHAPTER LX XVII. 

THE RESOLUTION OF THE MOOR. 

The whole of this scene, so rapid and so terrible, 
had been seen from the castle of Montiel, owing 
to the separation of the curtains of the tent, and 
the agitation of the principal actors. We have 
seen that, in the interview of Agenor and Mothril, 
the latter, whilst listening to the propositions of 
the herald, frequently looked towards the plain, 
where something appeared to attract his attention. 
Agenor endeavoured to make him believe that, the 
Bretons were ignorant of the names of the fugi- 
tives of the night; he also made him believe that 
the fugitives had not been taken. ’I his news 
assured Mothril as to the fate of Don Pedro, for 
the darkness of the night had prevented the 
people of the castle from observing the results of 
the evasion, and the Bretons had taken care to 
keep the profoundest silence on making the capture. 
Mothril then supposed Don Pedro in safety. He, 
therefore, commenced by disdaining the proposi- 
tions of Mauleon; but, on looking towards the 
plain, he saw three horses roaming over the heath, 
and, no doubt, recognized amongst them, he whose 
eye was so certain, the piebald horse of Don Pedro, 
that noble animal which had brought his master 
from the field of battle to Montiel, and was to 
carry him like the lightning out of reach of his 
enemies. 

The Bretons, in their joy, had seized the cava- 
liers, and forgotten the horses, which, finding 
themselves at liberty, and also frightened at the 
precipitation of the aggressors, had fled beyond 
the entrenchments and reached the country. 
During the rest of the night they had wandered, 
browsing and enjoying themselves; but at day- 
break, instinct, fidelity perhaps, had drawn them 
towards the castle; it, was here that Mothril 
had noticed them. They had not taken the circu- 
lar road by which they left; so that the ravine was 
between them and the castle, a ravine abrupt 
and deep, which had stopped them. Hidden by 
the projections of the rock, they regarded, from 
time to‘time, Montiel, tl*en again set to grazing, 
in the ragged bits of ground, tbe mosses and 


resinous madronios, whose berry resembles the 
strawberry by its colour and perfume. 

"When Mothri observed these animals, he 
turned pale, and conceived doubts as to Agenor’s 
veracity. It was then he prepared to discuss the 
conditions, and to get his own life promised to 
him. Then, all at once, the scene of the tent ap- 
peared to him in all its horror. He recognised 
the golden lion of Henry de Transtamara, the red 
hair of Don Pedro, his energetic gesture and his 
vigour. He recognised his voice, when the last cry — 
the cry of death — escaped harsh and despairi. 
from his mutilated throat. He would now have 
gladly retained Ag&nor as an hostage, or to tear 
him piece by piece; now he despaired. And 
now, too, seeing they were murdering Don Pedro, 
and knowing neither the cause or the consequence 
of the discussion, he said to himself that he was 
really lost, he, the instigator of the murdered king. 
From this moment he comprehended all the tactics 
of Agenor. The latter promised him life that he 
might be massacred on his leaving Montiel, and 
that he might have, freely and indefinitely, Aissa. 
— “ It is possible that I may die,” sal U the Moor to 
himself; “ at the same time I shall endeavour to 
live ; but as to the young girl, curbed Christian, 
you shall not have her, or you shall have her dead 
with me.” , 

He agreed with Rodrigo to be silent respecting 
the death of Don Pedro, whom they alone had 
seen, and assembled the officers of Montiel. All 
were of opinion that they should surrender. 
Mothril in vain endeavoured to persuade these 
men that death was better than the discretion of' 
the conquerors. 

Rodrigo himself argued against his design. 
“ They will punish Don Pedro,” he said, “ and 
some other great ones, perhaps; but we, whom they* 
have spared in the combat — we, who are Spaniards, 
like Don Henry, why should they massacre us, 
when we have the word of the constable as a 
guarantee? We are neither Saracens nor Moors, 
and we worship the same God as our vanquishers.’ 

Mothril saw plainly that all was finished. With 
the resignation of his compatriots, he bowed his 
head, and alone fixed his mind on an unchange- 
able, terrible resolution. 

Rodrigo had it proclaimed that the garrison 
would immediately surrender. Mothril obtained 
that the capitulation should not take place till the 
evening. They submitted for a last time to his 
wishes. It was then that the herald came to 
Duguesclin to propose eight o’clock in the even- 
ing for the surrender of the place. 

Mothril shut himself up in the apartments of 
the governor, to commence his prayers, he said 
to Rodrigo: — “ You will,” he said to him, “ let the 
garrison leave at the hour agreed upon, that is at 
night; the soldiers first, then the sub-officers, then 
the officers and yourself, I shall leave the last 
with Donna Aissa.’ Mothril, left alone, opened 
the door of Aissa’s room. “You see, my child,” 
he said to her, “ that all succeeds to our wishes, 
Don Pedro is not only gone, he is dead.” 

“ Dead!” exclaimed the young girl, with an ex- 
pression of horror, which still contained a rem- 
nant of doubt. 

“ Stay,” said Mothril, phlegmatically, “ come 
and see.” 

“Oh!” murmured Aissa, hesitating beiween 
fear and the desire of knowing the truth. 

“ Hesitate not, do not be thus imposed on, Aissa; 
I wish you to see how the Christians treat their 
enemies when vanquished and prisoners; these 
Christians whom you love so!” He drew the 


THE IKON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


227 


yotu g girl from the room to the platform, and 
showed her the tent of Begue de Vilaines with 
the body still extended. At the moment Aissa, 
silent and pale, contemplated this frightful spec- 
tacle, a man was kneeling close to the body, and 
by a blow with a Breton knife, separated from it 
the head. Aissa uttered a piercing cry, and fell 
almost fainting into the arms of Mothril. The 
latter carried her to her room, and knelt at the 
foot of the bed on which Aissa reposed. “ Child,” 
he said, “you see— you know — the fate that has 
befallen Don Pedro awaits me. The Christians 
have offered me a capitulation and my life; but 
they had also promised the life of Don Pedro. 
See how they keep their word! You are young 
and without experience; but your heart is pure, 
your mind upright; counsel me, I entreat you.” 

“ 1 counsel you?” 

“You know a Christian, you ” 

“ And a Christian,” exclaimed Aissa, “ who will 
not forfeit his word, and who will save you because 
he loves me.” 

“ You think so?” said Mothril, gloomily shaking 
his head. 

“ I am sure of it, ’’added the young girl, with the 
enthusiasm of love. 

“Child!” said Mothril, “what authority has he 
amongst his own? He is a simple knight, and he 
has over him captains, generals, a constable, 
a king. That he would pardon, I grant ; but the 
others are implacable, they would kill us!” 

“ Me!” 'exclaimed the young girl with a move- 
ment of egotism she could not repress, and which 
showed to the Moor the inmost soul of Aissa, that 
is, the extent of the danger, and the necessity of 
a prompt resolution. 

“ No,” he said, “ you are a young girl, hand- 
some, and desirable. These captains, these gene- 
rals, this constable, this king, would pardon you 
in the hope of meriting a smile, or a recompense 
still more flattering. Oil! the French and 
Spaniards are gallant!” he added, with a funereal 
smile. “But me! me! I am but a man dangerous 
to them ; they will sacrifice me.” 

“I tell you that Agenor is there, that he will 
defend my honour at the expense of his life.” 

“ And if he died, what would become of you?” 

“ I have death as a refuge.” . 

“Oh! I face death with less resignation than 
you, Aissa, because I am nearer to it.” 

“ I swear to you I will save you.” 

“ On what do you swear to me?” 

“On my life! Besides, you deceive yourself, J 
repeat, Mothril, as to the influence possessed by 
Agenor. The king loves him; he is a good servi- 
ieur of the constable; he has had an important 
mission confided to him, you know, at Soria.” 

“Yes, and you know it also, Aissa, as it 
appears,” said the Moor, with a look Full of a 
sombre jealousy. 

Aissa blushed with modesty and fear, remem- 
bering that Soria was for her a name of love and 
ineffable delights. She then continued: — “My 
knight will save us both. I will make him, if ne- 
cessary enter into this condition.” 

“Listen to me, then, child!” exclaimed the 
Moor, impatient at seeing this amorous obstinacy 
era harass every step of the road he wished to rush 
into;. “Agenor is so little capable of saving us that 

he came here just now ” 

“He came?” said Aissa, “here? you did not 
apprize me?” 

“ To open all eyes as to your love! You forget 
your dignity, young girl. He came, I say, to en- 
treat me to find a means of withdrawing you from 


the outrages of the Christians. At this price he 
promised to defend me.” 

“ Outrages to me! to me who will make myself 
a Christian!” 

Mothril uttered a cry of rage, immediately 
repressed by imperious necessity. — “How shall I 
act ? ” continued Mothril ; “ advise me, time 

presses. To-night the place will be delivered to 
the Christians; to-night I shall die, and you will 
belong, as a .part of the booty, to the chiefs of the 
infidels.” 

“What did* Agenor say, then?” 

“ He proposed a terrible means, which wW 
prove to you how great is the danger.” 

“ A means of safety?” 

“ A means of escape.” 

“ Speak!” 

“ Look ort of this window. You see that on 
this side the rock of Montiel rises perpendicu- 
larly, is impracticable, and descends to the bottom 
of the ravine in such a way, that surveillance on 
this point would be superfluous, for the birds alone 
by flying, and the snakes by crawling, could de- 
scend or mount along the rocks. Besides, since 
they no longer watch for Don Pedro, the French 
have entirely abandoned this point.” 

Aissa plunged her regards with terror into the 
gulf already tinged with black by the approach of 
night. “ Well!” she said. 

“ Well! the Frank has advised me to attach a 
rope to the bars of this grating, to let it hang in 
the ravine — as we wished to have done for Don 
Pedro, and as he would have done if he had not 
required a horse below — he counselled me to 
attach myself, with you in my arms, to the knots 
of this rope, and to reach the ravine, whilst the 
army of Christians is occupied at the doors of the 
castle in relieving the garrison, who will defile 
without arms about eight o’clock in the evening.” 

Aissa, her eye on fire, her lips trembling, lis- 
tened to the Moor, and went a second, time to con- 
template the yawning chasm. “ ’Tis he who has 
given this counsel,” she said. 

“‘When you have descended,’ he added,” con- 
tinued Mothril, “‘you will find me awaiting you; 

I will facilitate your means of escape.’ ” 

“What! He will abandon us? he wul leave me 
alone with you?” 

Mothril turned pale. “No,” he said. “Do you 
see the three horses who are browsing on the 
other side of the ravine ?” 

“Yes, yes! I see ihem.” 

“ The Frank has already kept half his promise. 
He has sent these horses to await us. Count 
them, Aissa — there are three.” 

“How shall we fly, then? Oh! yes, yes!” she 
exclaimed, “you me- him. Oh! Mothril! oh! 
to fly with him, I would enter a gulf of fire! 
Let us go.” 

“ You will not be afraid?” 

“ Since he waits for me !” 

“ Hold yourself in readiness, then, the moment 
the drums and trumpets announce the garrison to 
be in movement.” 

“ The rope ” 

“ The rope is here. It would support a weight 
tnree times heavier than ours; and as to its length, 

I have measured it by dropping a leaden ball at 
the end of a string into the ravine. You will be 
courageous and strong, Aissa?” 

“ As though I went with my knight to my wed- 
ding,” replied the young girl, overcome with 

joy- 


22S 


THE IKON HAND; OR THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

THE HEAD AND THE HAND. 

Night fell upon Montiel; a night, sombre and 
cold, which enveloped in its humid winding sheet, 
forms and colours. At half past eight the 
trumpet gave the signal, and the flambeaus, were 
seen to descend in a procession the steep and 
rocky path which led to the principal door. The 
soldiers, the officers, appeared one by one, making 
their submission, and received benevolently by the 
constable and the Christian captains, who, para- 
ding near the retrenchment, watched the sortie of 
men and baggage. 

Suddenly an idea occurred to Musaron; he 
approached his nlaster, and said to him:— “ This 
cursed Moor has treasures; he is capable of 
throwing them into some precipice that we might 
not profit by them. I will make the tour of the 
place, for I see as clear at nights as the cats, and 
take no great pleasure in seeing defile these Spa- 
nish prisoners.” 

“ Go,” said Agenor; “ there is a treasure which 
Mothril will not throw into a precipice, and 
which is my own dearest treasure! This one I shall 
watch for at the door, and I shall take it the 
moment it presents itself.” 

“Eh! eh!” said, with an air of gloomy doubt, 
Musaron, who glided into the brushwood of the 
fosse and disappeared. 

The soldiers were still defiling, the cavalry 
came next; two hundred horses take some time 
to descend one by one paths like that of Montiel. 

Impatience devoured the heart of Mauleon. A 
fatal presentiment flashed across his brain like 
a sharp pointed steel. “ Fool that I am,” he 
said to himself; “Mothril has my word; Le 
knows that his life is safe; he knows that 
the slightest misfortune happening to this 
young girl would expose him to the most horri - 
ble torments. Then Aissa, who must have seen 
my banner, will have taken her precautions — she 
will appear— I shall see her — I was mad ” 

Suddenly the hand of Musaron rested on the 
shoulder of Agenor:— “ Sir,” he said to him 
quietly, “come quick!” 

“ What’s the matter? how agitated you are?” 

5 Sir, come, in heaven’s name! What I had 
foreseen comes to pass. The Moor is removing — 
through a window!” 

“ Eh! what’s that to me?” 

“I am afraid it concerns you much — the ob- 
jects they let down appear to me like livmg objects.” 

“We must give the alarm!” 

“Not for your life! The Moor, if ’tis him, 
will defend himself, he will kill some one; so diers 
are brutal, they are not amorous, they will spare 
nothing. Let us do our work ourselves.” 

“ You are mad, Musaron; you would for a few 
miserable coffers let me lose the first regard of 
Aissa.” 

“I will go alone,” said Musaron, impatient; 
“if I am killed, it will be your fault.” 

“ Agenor made no reply. He separated him- 
self without affectation from the group of officers, 
and reached the entrenchment. 

“ Quick, quick!” cried the squire to him; “ let 
us try to arrive in time.” 

Agenor doubled his pace, but nothing was more 
difficult than a race through these briars, shrubs, 
and roots, 

“Do you see?” said Musaron, showing to his 
master a white form which glided along the black 
wall at the base of the ravine. 


Agenor uttered a cry. 

“ Is it you, Agenor?” replied a gentle voice. 

“Well, sir! what do you say to it?” enquired 
Musaron. 

“Oh!” cried Mauleon, “ run quick to the edge 
of the ravine; surprise them!” 

“Agenor!” repeated the voice of A'issa, upon 
whom Mothril attempted to force silence by 
strong exhortations made in a low tone. 

“Let us lie down, sir, in the ditch; let us not 
speak, or show ourselves!” 

“ But they are flying that way !” 

“Oh! we can easily overtake a young girl, 
especially when this young only asks lo be over- 
taken. Let us lie down, I say, my dear master.” 

Mothril, however, had listened as the tiger lis- 
tens on leaving his cavern, or when he holds the 
prey between his teeth. He heard no more, took 
courage, and climbed with a nimble step the 
shelving of the steep fosse ; with one hand he 
held A'issa and drew her up; with the other he 
clung to the trees and roots. He reached the 
summit and took breath. 

Agenor now rose and cried:— “ Aissa! Aissa!” 

“ I was sure it was him,” replied the young 
girl. 

“ The Christian!” hurled Mothril with rage. 

“ But Agenor is there! let us gp that way,” said 
Aissa, struggling to disengage herself from Moth- 
ril’s arms, to run to her lover. 

The only reply of Mothril, was to hold her 
more firttly, and draw her towards the spot where 
he had seen the horse of Don Pedro. 

Agenor ran, but stumbled at every step, and' 
Mothril gained ground and approached one of the 
horses. 

“ This way! this way!” still cried Aissa, “ come, 
Mauleon, come!” 

“ If you speak a word, you are dead!” whispered 
Mothril, in her ear. Would you attract all the 
world here by your stupid cries? Would you 
that your lover may no longer find us?” 

Aissa was silent, Mothril found the horse, seised 
it by the mane, jumped into the saddle, threw the 
young girl in front of him, and started at a gallop. 
It was the horse of one of the officers taken with 
Don Pedro. 

Mauleon heard the gallop of the horse, and 
uttered a groan of rage: — “He flies! he flies! 
A'issa! A'issa! answer!” 

“ I am here! I am here!” said the young girl; 
and her voice was lost in the thickness of the veil 
which Mothril pressed on the lips of Aissa at the 
risk of smothering her. 

Agenor finished a desperate course, he fell on 
his knees, exhausted and breathless. 

“Oh! God is not just,” he murmured. 

“Sir! sir’ here is a horse,” cried Musaron, 
“ courage, come, I am holding it.” 

Agenor bounded with joy, he recovered his 
strength, and placed his foot in the stirrup held 
for him by Musaron. He started like lightning 
in the track of Mothril. His horse was that 
admirable courser with the fiery spots, that had 
not its equal in Andalusia; so that, devouring 
space, Agenor approached Mothril, and cried to 
A'issa: — “Courage! I am here.” 

Mothril ploughed with a poignard, the flancs of 
his horse, who neighed with pain. 

“Yield her to me! I will not harm you,” said 
Agenor, to the Moor; “ yield her to me! by the 
living God, I will let you fly.” 

The Moor replied by a contemptuous laugh. 

“ A’issa! Aissa! glide from his arms, Aissa!” 

I The young girl was suffocating, and uttered 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


229 


cries of despair under the robust arm that stifled 
her. At length, Mothril fell on his back the 
burning breath of Don Pedro’s horse; Agenor 
seized- the robe of his mistress and drew it forcibly 
towards him: — “ Yield her to me,” he said to the 
Saracen, “ or I kill you !” 

“Loose her, Christian, or you are dead!” 

Agenor rolled his hand in the white robe, and 
raisedhis sword against Mothril; the latter, with a 
blow of his poignard, launched obliquely, felled 
the left hand of Agenor. The hand remained 
clinging to the robe, and Agenor uttered a cry so 
piercing, that Musaron heard it at a distance, and 
howled with rage. 

Mothril thought he could now fly; but it was no 
longer Agenor who pursued, it was the animated 
race horse; besides, rage had doubled the force of 
the young man; his sword was once more raised, 
and if Mothril had not made his horse bound on 
one side, there would have been an end of him. 

“ Yield her, Saracen,” said Agen^~, in a failing 
voice, “you see plainly that I shall kill you. Yield 
her to me; I love her!” 

“And I also love her!” replied Mothril, again 
pricking his horse. 

A voice, that of Musaron, penetrated the dark- 
ness. The honest squire had found the third 
horse; he had cut across the briars and stones, and 
came to the assistance of his master. 

“Here I am! courage, sir!” he cried. 

Mothril turned round and saw he was lost: — 
“You desire this young girl?” he said. 

“ Yes, I wish to have her, and I will have her!” 

“Well! take her then.” 

The name of Agenor, followed by a stifled 
rattle, issued from beneath the veil, and something 
heavy rolled under Agenor’s horse, with the white 
scarf and long waving folds. Mauleon threw 
himself off to seize what Mothril had abandoned - 
he knelt to kiss the veil that enclosed his mistress; 
but the moment he saw, he remained flxed, inani- 
mate. When daybreak threw its pale light on 
this horrible scene, the chevalier was seen livid as 
a spectre, his lips glued to the cold and leaden 
coloured lips of a head that Mothril had thrown 
to him. Within three steps, wept Musaron; the 
faithful follower had found means of dressing the 
stump of his master during his long swoon, he had 
saved him despite himself. At thirty paces lay 
Mothril, the temples traversed by the sure and 
deadly arrow of the brave squire, and still holding 
in his arm the mutilated body of A'issa. Dead, he 
smiled in his triumph. Two horses wandered here 
and there amongst the herbage. 


EPILOGUE. 

The worthy knight with the iron hand had de- 
ceived himself in assigning a duration of eight days 
to the recital of his exploits and his misfortunes. 
In fact, he was one of those who reci:e quickly, 
because they have a flawing speech and picturesque 
language; and as to his auditory, never was there 
seen a more intelligent or more sensible one round 
a passionate narrator. Every one present fol- 
lowed by a pantomime, equivalent to the recital o 
the chevalier, all the emotions he showed in his 
simple and energetic language. 

Jehan Froissard, with eyes sparkling or humid, 
devoured every word; he appeared to represent to 
himself the sites, the skies, the acts, and all things 
comprised reflected themselves in his intelligent 
regards. 

Messire Espaing, started at the narration of 


battles, as though he heard the clarions of Spain, or 
the trumpets of the Moors. 

Alone, in the most obscure corner of the chamber, 
the squire of the knight discourser preserved 
silence and immobility. His head resting on his 
bosom, as so many remembrances, coloured by the 
description of his master, defiled before him, he 
drew himself up at moments, when they recounted 
one of his prowesses, or if the chevalier became so 
animated as to make them fear a return of pain. 
Eleven hours, the long hours of the night, thus 
slipped away, or rather fled like sparks of the fog 
fire that warmed the room, like the smoke of the 
lamps and wax lights above the heads of the audi- 
tors. Towards the conclusion of the history, hearts 
were oppressed, eyes were humid. 

The voice of the Chevalier de Mauleon, visibly 
distressed, faltered at every word, and stopped at 
every emotion, as does the chisel of the inspired 
artist. 

Musaron fixed upon him a soft and melancholy 
regard, and with that familiarity which reminds 
one more of the friend than the follower, he placed 
a hand on his shoulder: — “ There, there, seigneur,” 
he said, “ enough, enough for the present.” 

“Oh!” murmured the knight, “this cinder is 
not yet cold; it burns on being moved.” 

Two large tears rolled down the cheeks of the 
chronicler — tears of compassion and interest, no 
doubt, but which a wicked spirit, he who always 
endeavours to slander the best intentions of 
chroniclers and romancers, has since attributed to 
joy, at having heard so noble a narrative made by 
the hero of the adventures. 

When the history was terminated, the sun 
already shone upon the roof of the hostelry and 
the growing forests. Jehan Froissard could then 
see the figure of the chevalier, and this figure 
merited all the attention of a man who studies men. 
In his noble and intelligible forehead, thought or 
trouble had furrowed a deep wrinkle. Already 
there extended from the corner of the eyes those 
diverging lines or network, which seem like 
threads intended to draw the eyelid, as if to close 
it violently before death. The regard of the 
Dastard sought neither for applause nor consola- 
tion from his auditors. 

“ What a touching history !” said Froissard ; 
“what a fine picture! the rich virtue!” 

“ In the tomb, in the tomb, all that, master,” 
replied the qhevaher, “all that is now dead. 
Donna A'issa, that cherished head, is not the only 
one I have to mourn; all my amours, all my 
friendships, have not chosen the same field to bury 
themselves. When this one,” said the knight, in- 
dicating, by a tender regard, his squire, leaning on 
the back of his chair, “ when this one, who is, 
alas! older than I am, shall have closed his eyes, 

I shall not have a soul upon earth, and, holy God. 

T shall love no one again; my heart is dead, Sire 
Jehan Froissard, from having lived too much in 
so short a time.” 

“But, thank God!” interrupted Musaron, with 
an effort to render free and joyful his voice, which 
was stifled with emotion, “ thank God, I find my- 
self charming; my arm is strong, my eye steady ; 

I send an arrow as far as formerly, and riding 
not in the least fatigues me.” 

“ Sire Chevalier,” interrupted Froissard, “ j ou 
will allow my unworthy pen, then, to retrace the 
noble deeds, and the tender misfortunes, which l 
have learnt from your mouth? ’Tis a great honour 
you do me, ’tis a sweet and bitter joy.” 

Mauleon inclined. 

“ But for the love of Jesus, good knight,” 


230 


THE IRON HAND; OR THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


tinued Froissard, “do not despair; you are still j 
young, you are handsome you ought to have as ! 
much of this world’s goods, as becomes a noble 
man and a noble heart; friends are never wanting 
to brave men.” 

The chevalier mournfully shook his head, Mu- 
saron made a movement of his shoulders, which 
would have caused a jealousy to the stoic, Epic- 
tet^A or the sceptic, Phyrrho. 

“ When we have been noted in the army by our 
bravery,” continued Froissard, “in the councils 
of princes by our wisdom; when we are both the 
arm that executes roughly, and the mind that 
conceives safely, we are sought for; we do not ap- 
proach the court, without feeling its graces; and 
you, Seigneur de Mauleon, have two courts that 
protect you, and dispute the pleasure of making 
you rich and powerful. Has Spain the preference 
over France? Have you preferred the ultra-mon- 
taine county to a barony in your own country?” 

“ Sire Froissard,” replied Mauleon, with much 
calmness and a deep sigh, ‘fit was a very great 
mourning that covered France, on the 13th day 
of July, 1380! On that day, a spirit fled to its 
creator; a soul, the noblest and most generous 
that has ever appeared in the world. Alas! Sire 
Jehan Froissard, it lightly touched my bosom in 
its flight, for I held in my arms, and kneeling, 
the head of the valiant constable, and this head, 
stiffened on my breast.” 

“ Alas!” said Froissard. 

“Alas!” repeated Espaing, piously crossing 
himself, whilst Musaron knit his brows, that he 
might not be too sensibly affected at this remem- 
brance. 

“Yes, messire, once, the constable, Bertrand 
Duguesclin, dead at Castleneuf de Randon; dead! 
he who appeared the god of battles, once, the 
army, without chief and without guide, I felt my- 
self decay ; I had placed much of my life on his, 
messire, and attached the fibres of my heart in 
such a way, that they held by his.” 

“ You have still the good King Charles the Wise, 
Sire Chevalier.” 

“ I had to mourn his death, at the moment I 
wept for that of the constable; from this double 
blow, I did not rise. I hung the sword and 
shield to the rafters of my little mansion, left me 
by my uncle; I there buried for four years my 
grief and my remembrances. Yet a new reign 
made France young again; I saw pass, at times, 
gay chevaliers, and I listened to the songs of the 
minstrels; oh! messire, how they struck my 
heart, these troubadours, who passed the Pyrenees 
singing, in a sad and melancholy air, those Spanish 
lines of the ballad, written on Blanche de Bourbon 
and Don Frederic, the grand master : — 

“ El rey no me ha contado 
Con las virgines, mi roz. 

Castilla, di que te hize!” 

“ What! seigneur, all this did not draw you to 
the court of Spain, of the King Don Henry, who 
reigned so gloriously, and who loved you so 
sincerely?” 

“ Seigneur chronicler, the moment arrived 
when my poor head, on fire, dreamt of nothing but 
Spain. Of all my past exploits, I had preserved 
so dark, so sad a remembrance, that I could only 
ai tribute it to the consequences of a dream. In 
reality, my life seemed to me to have been divided 
by a long sleep, and but for Musaron, who at 
times said to me:- ‘Yes, seigneur, yes, we 
have seen all that these men sing,’ without Mu- 
Baron, I say, I should have believed in magic. 


Every night I dreamt of Spain; I again saw 
Toledo and Montiel, the grotto in which we beheld 
Hafiz die, where Caverley came to seat himself. 

I saw Burgos and the splendours of the court; 
Soria! Soria! seigneur, and the extacies of love. 
My life was consumed in desires, in repug- 
nances — it was torpor, it was fever. One day 
the trumpets passed, ringing through the country. 
They were the battles of Monseigneur Louis de 
Bourbon, who was repairing to Spain to the court 
of the good King Henry, who feared being 
vanquished in the war with Portugal, and had 
solicited the aid of Frail ce. The Duke of Bourbon 
had heard of a knight who had fought in the wars 
of Spain, and who knew many secret things of the 
expedition of the companies. I saw enter my 
house pages and knights, who filled my little 
court and greatly astonished my retainers. I was 
at the window and had but the time to descend 
to hold the stirrup of the prince. The latter, 
then, with much courtesy, questioned me as to my 
wounds and adventures, he wished to hear nar- 
rated the death of Don Pedro, my combat with 
the Moor; but I kept from him all that concerned 
Donna Ai'ssa. Enraptured, the duke begged me, 
entreated me, even, to accompany him ; I was in 
one of those moments of hallucination in which my 
life appeared to me as a dream, and then I wished 
to know, I burned to see once more. Moreover, 
the 'trumpets intoxicated me, and Musaron here 
looked at me with eyes of envy; he already held 
his arbalete in his hand. 

“‘Come! Mauleon, come!* said the prince.” 

“ ‘ So be it, monseigneur,’ I replied. ‘ To a 
certainty the King of Spain will be glad to see 
me again.’ 

“We departed, shall I say it, almost joyful; 1 
was about then to bow myself on that soil w hich 
had drank my blood and that of m v best beloved. 
Oh! messieurs, memory is a noble gift: many men 
only know what it is to live but once, with much 
difficulty; others perpetually recommence the 
days they have already iost. A fortnight after 
our departure we were at Burgos, and in another 
fortnight at Segovia with the court. I found the 
King Don Henry looking much older, but still 
upright and majestic. I knew not how to explain 
the secret repugnance I felt towards him, towards 
him I had so much loved when the days of golden 
fancies made him appear to me noble and unfor- 
tunate, that is perfect. On seeing him again I read 
cruelty and dissimulation in his face. ‘Alas!’ 
I said to myself, *’tis the crown, then, that 
thus changes the features and the mind.* It was 
not the crown that had changed Henry, ’twas my 
sight which knew’ how to read through the 
shadows of the crown! The first thing which 
the king showed to the duke at Segovia, in 
the tower, was an iron cage, in which were 
shut up the sons of Don Pedro and of Maria de 
Padilla. Unfortunates, who grew up pale and 
hungry in the narrow enclosure of these bars, 
constantly threatened with the lance of a sentinel, 
constantly insulted by the ferocious smile of a 
guardian or a visitor. One of these children, 
messeigneurs, resembled, like a faithful portrait, 
his unhappy father. He fixed on me looks that 
pierced my heart, as if the soul of Don Pedro had 
taken refuge in his body, and knowing all, had 
silently addressed to me the reproach of his death, 
and the misfortune of his race. This child, cr 
rather this young man, knew nothing, however, 
nor did he know me; he regarded me without 
an object, unintentionally, but my conscience spoke, 
as tiiat of Don Henry was silent. In fact, the 


THE IRON HAND; OR, THE KNIGHT OF MAULEON. 


231 


prince, taking the Duke of Bourbon by the hand, 
drew him near the cage, saying to him.— ‘See 
there, the children of him who killed your sister. 
If you wish that they should die, I will deliver 
them tu yod.’ 

W T: which the duke replied: — ‘ Sire, the 
children are not guilty of their father’s crimes.’ 
I saw the king frown and order the cage to be 
shut. I would willingly have embraced the 
brave duke. Thus, when, after the promenade, 
monseigneur wished to present me to the king, 
who had also regarded me with attention: — 
‘No! no!’ I replied, ‘no!’ I could not speak to 
him; but the king had recognised me. He came 
to me before the whole court, saluting me by 
my name, which, under other circumstances, 
would have made me weep with joy and pride. 

“ ‘ Sire Chevalier ’ he said, ‘ I have a promise to 
Keep Trr~«,xds you; recall it to me.’ 

“ ‘ No, indeed, sire,’ I faltered out, ‘ nothing.’ 

“ ‘ But, to-morrow I will speak to you !’ replied the 
king, with a gracious smile, which did not make me 
forget his cruel treatment of the infant prisoners. 

“ But I did not wait for th*> day of to-morrow. 
With the leave of the duke I departed immediately 
for France, and only sojourned in Spain a quarter 
of an hour to offer up my prayers on the tomb of 
Donna Aissa* near the chateau of Moatiel. Poor 


we departed, this brave Musaron and myself; poor 
we returned when others returned very rich. 
You have now the termination of the history, Sire 
Chronicler. Add to it that I patiently await 
death; it will re-unite me to my friends. I have 
just made my annual pilgrimage to the tomb of 
my uncle, and I return to my house. If you pass 
; that way, messieurs, you will be well received, and 
j do me honour. ’Tis a small castle built with brick 
I and flint; it has two towers, and a wood overlooks 
I it; any one in the neighbourhood will point it 
j out to you.” This said, Agenor de Mauleon 
i courteously, saluted Jehan Froissard and Espaing, 
demanded |ps horse, and slowly and tranquilly 
took the road to his house, followed by Musaron, 
w r ho had defrayed the expenses. 

“ Ah!” said Espaing, regarding him on his road, 
“ the fine opportunities these men of former times 
have had; the gay time, the noble hearts!” 

“ It will take me a week to write all this,” said 
Froissard to himself; “the good chevalier was 
right — and then, shall I write as well as he has 
narrated?” 

Some time afterwards the two children of Don 
Pedro and Maria de Padilla, handsome as their 
mother, proud as their father, died in the cage of 
Segovia. Henry of Transtamara, however, reigned 
happily, and founded a dynasty. 


THE END. 


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Woman’s Wrong. By Mrs. Eiloart. 

Treason at Home. By Mrs. Greenough. 

Rome anti the Papacy. By F. P. De La Gattina. 

A Lonely Life. By author “ Wise as a Serpent.” 
My Hero. A Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. 

Tile Initials. A Charming Love Story. 
Camors. A Love Story. By Octave Feuillet. 

Tlie Clyffards of Clytfe. A Love Story. 

Tiie Macdermots of Ballycloran. 

Lost Sir Massingherd. A Charming Story. 

Tiie Rector’s Wife ; or, Valley of a 100 Fires. 
My Son’s Wife. By author of “Mr. Arle.” 
Family Pride. By author of “ Pique.” 

Tiie Forsaken Dangtiter. A Love Story. 
Family Secrets. By author “ Family Pride.” 
Self-Sacritice. By author “ Margaret Maitland.” 
The Dead Secret. By Wilkie Collins. 

The Crossed Path; or Basil. By Wilkie Collins. 
Flirtations in Fashionable Life. 

The Rich Husband. By author of “ Geo. Geith.” 
Country Quarters. By Countess Blessington. 

A Woman’s Thoughts about Women. 
The Jealous Husband. By Annette Maillard. 
Belle of Washington. By Mrs. Lasselle. 
The Woman in Black. A Charming Work. 
High Life in Washington. By Mrs. Lasselle. 
Harem Life in Egypt and Constantinople. 

The Rival Belles; or, Life in Washington. 
Rose Douglas. Companion to “ Self-Sacrifice.” 
Memoirs of 6i Vidocq,” the French Policeman. 
The Devoted Bride. By St. George Tucker. 
The Matchmaker. By Beatrice Reynolds. 

The Beautiful Widow. By Mrs. Shelley. 
The Pride of Life. By Lady Jane Scott. 

The Morrisons. By Mrs. Margaret Hosmer. 

W oodburn Orange. By William Howitt. 

The Lost Beauty. By Lady of Spanish Court. 

S aratoga. An Indian tale of Frontier Life in 1787. 
Married at Last. By Annie Thomas. 

False Pride ; or, Two Ways to Matrimony. 

Out of the Depths. A Story of a Woman’s Life. 
The Coquette; or, Life of Eliza Wharton. 
Self-Love ; or, the Afternoon of Single Life. 

Cora Belmont; or, The Sincere Lover. 

The Brother’s Secret. By William Godwin. 
Love and Duty. By Mrs. Hubbach. 

The Lost Love. By Mrs. Oliphant. 

The Bohemians of London. By E. M. Whitty. 
Courtship and Matrimony. By R. Morris. 
The Lovers’ Trials. By Mrs. Dennison. 

The Queen’s Favorite ; or Price of a Crown. 
The Man of the World. By William North. 
The Refugee. By Hermann Melville. 
Indiana. A Love Story. By George Sand. 

J ealousy. By George Sand, author of “ Consnelo.” 
The Little Beauty. A Love Story. By Mrs. Grey. 
The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe. 

Count, of Monte Cristo. By Alexander Dumas. 
Camille ; or, Fate of a Coquette. By Alex. Dumas. 
Love and Liberty. By Alexander Dumas. 
Ladles’ Guide to True Politeness. 

The Old Stone Mansion. By C. J. Peterson. 
Rate Aylesford. By Charles J. Peterson. 
Lorrimer Littlegood’s Adventures. 

Lord Montague’s Page. By G. P. R. James. 
The Cavalier. By G. P. R. James. 

The Tower of London. By W. H. Ainsworth. 

The above books are each issued in duodecimo form , in 
paper cover , a t $1.50 each, or bound in doth , at $1.7 beach. 


CAROLINE LEE HENTZ’S WORKS. 

Green and Gold Edition. Complete in twelve volumes , 
in Green Morocco Cloth , price $1.75 each ; or $21.00 a set , 
each set in a neat box. The following are their names: 

Planter’s Northern Bride. One vol.. paper 
cover. Price $1.50 ; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.75. 
Linda. The Young Pilot of the Belle 
Creole. Price $1.50 in paper; or $1.75 in cloth. 
Robert Graham. The Sequel to, and Continua- 
tion of Linda. Price $1.50 in paper ; or $1.75 in cloth. 
The Lost Daughter. One vol., paper cover. 

Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 
Courtship and Marriage. One vol., paper co- 
ver. Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 
Rena; or, The Snow Bird. One vol., paper 
cover. Price $1.50 ; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.75. 
Marcus Warland. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 
Love after Marriage. One vol., paper cover. 

Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, foe $1.75. 
Eoline; or, Magnolia Vale. One vol., pa- 
per cover. Price $1.50 ; or in one vol., cloth, $1.75. 
The Banished Son. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Helen and Arthur. One volume, paper cover. 
Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 
Ernest Linwood. One volume, paper cover. 
Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

DOESTICRS’ BOOKS. 

Complete in four volumes , bound in cloth , gilt back f 
price $1.75 each; or $7.00 a set , each set in a neat box. 
Doestlcks’ Letters. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 
Plu-ri-bus-tali. One volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $K75. 

The Elephant Club. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 
Witches of New York. One vol., paper cover 
Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

T. A. TROLLOPE’S WORKS. 

Complete in seven volumes , bound in cloth , gilt back, 
price $1.75 each ; or $12.25 a set , each set in a neat box. 

The Sealed Packet. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, $1.75. 
Garstang Grange. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50 : or in one volume, cloth, $1.75. 

Dream Numbers. One volume, paper cover. 

Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, $1.75. 
Leonora Casaloni ; or, The Marriage Secret. 

One vol., paper. Price $1.50 ; or in cloth, $1,75. 
Gemma. A Tale of Love and Jealousy. One vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price $1.50 ; or in cloth, $1.75. 

Marietta; or. Life in Tuscany. One volume, paper 
cover. Price $1.50; or in cloth, $1.75. 

Beppo, the Conscript. One volume, paper co- 
ver. Price $1.50; or in cloth, $1.75. 

ADVENTURES AND TRAVELS. 
Life and Adventures of Don Quixotte* 

and Sancho Panza. $1.00 in paper, or $1.75 in cloth. 
Adventures in Africa. By Major Cornwallis 
Harris. Price $1.50 in paper, or $1.75 in cloth. 

BOOKS BY THE BEST AUTHORS. 
The Wandering Jew. By Eugene Sue. Full 
of Illustrations. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 
Mysteries of Paris; aud its Sequel, Gerolstein. 

By Eugene Sue. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 
Martin, the Foundling. By Eugene Sue. Full 
of Illustrations. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 

Ten Thousand a Year. By Sami. C. Warren. 

With Illustrations. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 
Legends of the American Revolution. 

By George Lippard. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 
The Quaker City ; or, the Monks of Monk Hall* 
By George Lippard. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 

Blanche of Brandy wine. By George Lippard. 

Bound in cloth Price $2.00. 

Paul Ardenheim; the Monk of Wissahickon. 

By George Lippard. Bound in cloth. Price $2.00. 
Above are in cloth, or in paper cover, at $1.50 each. 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of any of them will be sent, Free of Postage, 
on Receipt of Retail Price, By T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


6 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST OE PUBLICATIONS 


CHARLES LEVER’S NOVELS. 

Each are neatly done up in paper covers , price 75 cents 
each , or a finer edition in cloth, price $^.00 each. 

diaries O’Malley, Price 75 cts. 

Harry Lorrequer, 75 “ 

Tom Burke of Ours, 75 “ 

Jack Hinton, tlie Guardsman, ....75 “ 

Artlinr O’Leary, 75 “ 

Tlie Kniglit of Gwynne, 75 “ 

Con Cregan, tlie Irish Gil Bias, 75 “ 

Davenport Dunn, 75 “ 

Kate O’Donogliue, , 75 “ 

Horace Templeton, 75 “ 

Above are also published in cloth, at $2.00 each. 


A Rent in a Cloud, 50 “ 

Saint Patrick’s Eve 50 “ 


WILKIE COLLINS’ GREAT WORKS. 

Tlie Dead Secret. Complete in one large duo- 
decimo volume, large type, paper cover, for $1.50, 
or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. We also publish au 
edition in octavo form, paper cover, price 50 cents. 

Tlie Crossed Path; or, Basil. Complete in 
one large duodecimo volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50, or bound in cloth, for $1.75. We also publish an 
edition in octavo form, paper cover, price 75 cents. 

Hide and Seek. Complete in one volume, octavo, 
paper cover. Price 75 cents. 

After Dark. Paper cover. Price 75 cents. 

Sights a-foot. Paper cover. Price 50 cents. 

Mad Monkton, and other Stories. Price 50 cents. 

The Q,ueen’s Revenge. Price 75 cents. 

The Yellow Mask. Price 25 cents. 

The Stolen Mask. Price 25 cents. 

Sister Rose. Price 25 cents. 


BEAUTIFUL SNOW! ILLUSTRATED. 

Beautiful Snow ! and Other Poems. New 

Illustrated Edition. By J. W. Watson. Beautifully 
Illustrated, from Original Designs by Edward L. 
Henry. Complete in one large octavo volume, 
printed on the finest tinted plate paper, and bound in 
morocco cloth, gilt top, gilt side, with beveled boards, 
price $2.00; or infull gilt, $3.00; or inhalf calf, $4.00. 

The Outcast; and other Poems. By J. W. 
Watson, author of “ Beautiful Snow.” Complete in 
one large octavo volume, printed on the finest tinted 
plate paper, bound in morocco cloth, beveled boards, 
price $2.00; or full gilt, $3.00 ; or half calf, $4.00. 

MISS PARDOE’S WORKS. 

Confessions of a Pretty Woman. By Miss 
Pardoe. Complete in one volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Jealous Wife. By Miss Pardoe. Complete 
in one large octavo volume. Price 50 cents. 

The Wife’s Trials. By Miss Pardoe. Complete 
in one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

The Rival Beauties. By Miss Pardoe. Com- 
plete in one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Romance of the Harem. By Miss Pardoe. 
Complete in one large octavo volume. Price 75 cents. 

Miss Pardoe’s Complete Works. This com- 
prises the whole of the above Five vsorks, and are 
bound in cloth, gilt, in one volume. Price $4.00. 

The Adopted Heir. By Miss Pardoe. One vol., 
paper. Price $1.5(1; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.75. 

The Earl’s Secret. By Miss Pardoe. One vol., 
paper. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.75. 


LIFE OF CHARLES DICKENS. 

The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R. 

Shelton Mackenzie. It contains, beside a full history of 
his Life, his Uncollected Pieces, in Prose and Verse ; 
Personal Recollections and Anecdotes; His Last Will 
in full ; as well as Letters from Mr. Dickens to various 
persons, never before published. With Portrait aud 
Autograph. The whole is issued in a large duodecimo 
volume, bound in Cloth. Price Two Dollars. 


BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED. 

T. B. Peterson & Brothers publish all the best and 
most popular, as well as the most economical Cook 
Books issued in the world. Every housekeeper shoul<J 
possess at least one of the following Cook Books, as 
they would save the price of it in a week's cooking. 
The Young Wife’s Cook Book. With 
receipts of all the best dishes to be prepared for 
Breakfast, Dinner, a»d Tea, as well as a large num- 
ber of entire New Receipts for Cooking and preparing 
everthing in all different ways. It is bound in a large 
volume of seven hundred pages. Price $1.75. 

Petersons’ New Cook Book; or Useful Re- 
ceipts for the Housewife and the uninit ated. One 
volume, bound. Price $1.75. 

Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as i> should 
he. A New Manual of the Dining Room and 
Kitchen. One volume, bound. Price $1.75. 

Miss Leslie’s New Cookery Book. Being 
her last Cook Book. One vol., bound. Price $1.75. 
The National Cook Book. By a Practical 
Housewife. One volume, bound. Price $1.75. 
Widditield’s New Cook Book; or, Practical 
Receipts for the Housewife. Bound. Price $1.75. 

Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book. By Mrs. Sarah 
J. Hale. One volume, bound. Price $1.75. 

Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking. 

Complete in one volume, bound. Price $1.75. 

Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million. 
Containing 4545 Receipts. By Mrs. Sarah J. Hale. 
One vol., 800 pages, strongly bound. Price $1.75. ' 

The Family Save-All. Complete in one large 
volume. Bound in cloth. Price $1.75. 

FRANC ATELLI’S MODERN COOK. 
Francatelli’s Modern Cook. A Practical 
Guide to the Culinary Art, in all its branches; com- 
prising, in addition to English Cookery, the most 
approved and recherche systems of French, Italian, 
and German Cookery ; adapted as well for the lar- 
gest establishments, as for the use of private fami- 
lies. By CHARLES ELME FRANCATELLI, pupil to 
the celebrated Careme, and Mai tre-d’ Hotel and Chief 
Cook to her Majesty, the Queen of England. With 
Sixty-Two Illustrations of various dishes. Reprinted 
from the Ninth London Edition, Revised and En- 
larged. The whole of the above is comprised in one 
large royal octavo volume of Six Hundred Pages, 
printed on the finest paper, strongly bound, and 
forms the largest and most complete work on all 
kinds of Cookery, of various Dishes, and Bills of 
Fare for all days iu the year, ever published. Price 
Five Dollars a copy, in one large vol., bound in cloth. 
Hotel and Men Cooks want this Work. 

SAMUEL WARREN’S BOOKS. 

Ten Thousand a Year. Complete in one large 
volume, paper cover. Price $1.50 ; or an edition, 
in one volume, cloth, for $2.00. 

Diary of a Medical Student. By author of 
“Ten Thousand a Year.” Price 75 cents. 

EMERSON BENNETT’S WORKS. 

Complete in seven volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back , 
price $1.75 each ; or $12.25 a set, each set in a neat box. 
Tke Border Rover. Fine edition, bound in 
cloth, for $1.75 ; or in paper cover, for $1.50. 

Clara Moreland. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $1.75 ; or in paper cover, for $1.50. 

Tke Forged Will. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $1.75 ; or in paper cover, for $1.50. 

Ellen Norkury. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $1.75 ; or in paper cover, for $1.50. 

Bride of tke Wilderness. Fine edition, bound 
in cloth, for $1.75 ; or in paper cover, for $1.50. 
Kate Clarendon. Fine edition, bound in cloth, 
for $1.75 ; or in paper cover, for $1.50. 

Viola. Fine edition, bound in cloth, for $1.75 ; or in 
paper cover, for $1.50. 

Heiress of Bellefonte and Walde-War- 
ren. Paper cover. Price 75 cents. 

Pioneer’s Daughter ; and tlie Unknown 
Countess. Paper cover. Price 75 cents. 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of any of them will be sent, Free of Postage, 
on Receipt of Retail Price, By T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa, 


7 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST OF PUBLICATIONS. 


MRS. HENRY WOOD’S BOOKS. 

Within the Maze. One volume, paper cover, 
Price $1.50; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Dene Hollow. Complete in one volume, paper 
cover. Price $1 .50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Bessy Rane. Complete in one volume, paper co- 
ver. Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

George Canterbury’s Will. One volume, pa- 
per cover. Price $1.50;- or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Roland Yorke. Complete in one volume, paper 
cover. Price $1.50; or in one volume, cloth, $1.75. 

Tlie Red Court Farm. One volume, paper 
cover. Price $1.50 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Elster’s Folly. Complete in one volume, paper 
cover. Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, $1.75. 

St. Martin’s Eve. One volume, paper cover. 
Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Mildred Arkell. One volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Lord Oakburn’s Daughters ; or, Earl’s 
Heirs. Price $1.50 in paper; or in cloth, $1.75. 

Oswald Cray. One volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Shadow of Ashlydyat. One vol., paper 
cover. Price $1.50; or in one vol., cloth, for $1.75. 

Squire Trevlyn’s Heir; or, Trevlyn 
Hold. Price $1.50 in paper ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Castle’s Heir; or, Lady Adelaide’s 
Oath. Price $1.50 in paper; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Verner’s Pride. One volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50 ; or bound in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Channings. One volume, paper cover. 
Price $1.50; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Mystery; or, Anne Hereford. One vol- 
ume, paper cover. Price 75 cents . 

The Lost Will; and The Diamond 
Bracelet. Price 50 cents. 

A Life’s Secret. Price 50 cents. 

The Lost Bank-Note. Price 75 cents. 

Orville College. Price 50 cents. 

The Haunted Tower. Price 50 cents. 

The Runaway Match. Price 50 cents. 

Foggy Night at OfFord. Price 25 cents. 

William Allair. One volume. Price 25 cents. 

A Light and a Dark Christmas. Price 25cts. 

MISS THACKERAY’S NEW WORK. 

The Story of Elizabeth. By Miss Thackeray. 
Complete in one large duodecimo volume. Price 
$1.00 in paper cover, or $1.50 in cloth. 

MRS. GREY’S POPULAR NOVELS. 

Price Twenty-Five cents each. 

Alice Seymour. Hyacinthe. 

Price Fifty cents each. 

Marriage in High Life. 

The Manoeuvring Mother. 

The Young Prima Donna. 

The Gipsy’s Daughter. 

The Belle of the Family. 

The Duke and Cousin. 

The Old Dower House. 

The Baronet’s Daughters. 

The Little Wife. 

Sybil Lennard. 

Lena Cameron. 

Price Seventy-Five cents each. 

Good Society. Mary Seaham. 

The Lion-Hearted. The Flirt. 

Passion and Principle. 

The Little Beauty. One volume, paper cover. 
Price $1.50 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Cousin Harry. One volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.50; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 


ALEXANDER DUMAS’ WORKS. 

The Count of Monte-Cristo. New and beau- 
tiful edition. With elegant illustrations. Price 
$1.50 in paper cover; or $1.75 in cloth. 

Edmond Dantes. A Sequel to the “Count of 
Monte-Cristo.” Price 75 cents in paper cover, ora 
finer edition, bound in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Countess of Monte-Cristo. A Compa- 
nion to “The Count of Monte-Cristo,” and fully equal 
to it, with a portrait of the “Countess of Monte- 
Cristo” on the cover. One large octavo volume, paper 
cover, price One Dollar, or bound in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Three Guardsmen ; or, The Three 
Mousquetaires. Price 75 cents in paper cover, 
or a finer edition in cloth, for $1.75. 

Twenty Years After. A Sequel to the “Three 
Guardsmen.” Price 75 cents in paper c-:ver, or a 
finer edition, in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Bragelonne; the Son of Atlios: being the 
continuation of “ Twenty Years After.” Price 75 cents 
in paper cover, or a finer edition in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Iron Mask. Being the continuation of the 
“Three Guardsmen,” “Twenty Years After,” and 
“ Bragelonne.” Paper $1.00 ; or in cloth, $1.75. 

Louise La Valliere ; or, the Second Series of 
the “ Iron Mask,” and end of “The Three Guards- 
men” series. Paper $1.00; or in cloth, $1.75. 

^he Memoirs of a Physician. Beautifully 
Illustrated. Paper $1.03; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

The Q,ueen’s Necklace; or, The “Second Se- 
ries of the Memoirs of a Physician.’’ Paper cover. 
Price $1.00 ; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

'■"Six Years Later ; or, Taking of the Bastile. Be- 
ing the “Third Series of the Memoirs of a Physi- 
cian.” Paper $1.00; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Countess of Cliarny ; or, The Fall of the French 
Monarchy. Being the “Fourth Series of the Memoirs 
of a Physician.” Paper $1.00 ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Andree de Taverney. Being the “ Fifth Series 
of the Memoirs of a Physician.” Paper cover, 
P^ice $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

The Chevalier; or, the “Sixth Series and final 
conclusion of the Memoirs of a Physician Series.” 
Price $1.00 in paper; or $1.75 in cloth. 

The Conscript. A Tale of War. Price $1.50 in 
paper ; or in cloth, for $1.75. 

Camille ; or The Fate of a Coquette. 
One volume, paper, price $1.50; or in cloth, $1.75. 

The Adventures of a Marquis. Complete 
in one large octavo volume, paper cover. Price 
$1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Tbe Forty.-Five Guardsmen. Paper cover. 
Price $1.00; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Diana of Meridor. P«per cover. Price One 
Dollar; or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

•^lie Iron Hand. Price 75 cents in paper cover, 
or in one volume, cloth, for $1.75. 

Love and Liberty. An Historical Novel. One 
volume, paper cover, price $1.50; or in cloth, $1.75. 

Annette; or, The Lady of the Pearls. A 
Companion to “Camille.” Price 50 cents. 

The Fallen Angel. A Story of Love and Life 
in Paris. One volume. Price 75 cents. 

Tbe Man with Five Wives. Complete in 
one volume. Price 75 cents. 

George; or, The Planter of the Isle of 
France. One volume. Price Fifty cents. 

Sketches in France. Price 75 cents. 

Isabel of Bavaria. Price 75 cents. 

Felina de Cliambure. Price 75 cents. 

The Horrors of Paris. Price 75 cents. 

The Twin Lieutenants. Price 75 cents. 

The Black Tulip. Price 50 cents. 

The Corsican Brothers. Price 50 cents. 

The Mohicans of Paris. Price 50 cents. 

The Count of Moret. Price 50 cents. 

The Marriage Verdict. Price 50 cents. 

Buried Alive. Price 25 cents. 


Above books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of any of them will be sent, Free of Postage, 
on Receipt of Retail Price, By T. B, PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


s 


T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS’ LIST OF PUBLICATIONS 


T. B. PETERSON and BROTHERS’ COMPLETE AND ILLUSTRATED 

EDITIONS OP 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

The only editions published in America containing the Original Illustrations. 


♦ 

PEOPLE’S DUODECIMO EDITION. 


Reduced in Price from $2.50 to $1.50 a volzime. 
This edition is printed on fine paper , from large , 
clear type , leaded, that all can read, containing Two 
Hundred Illustrations on tinted paper, and each hook 
is complete in one large duodecimo volume. 


Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $1.50 

Pickwick: Papers, Cloth, 1.50 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 1.50 

Great Expectations,,...... Cloth, 1.50 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 1.50 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 1.50 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1.50 

A Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 1.50 

Dickens’ New Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Little Dorrit, Cloth, 1.50 

Dombey and Son,* Cloth, 1.50 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Sketches by “ Boz,” Cloth, 1.50 

Barnaby Kudge, Cloth, 1.50 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 1.50 

Old Curiosity Shop, .Cloth, 1.50 

Mystery of Edwin Brood ; and 

Master Humphrey’s Clock,.. Cloth, 1.50 

American Notes; and The Un- 
commercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 

The Holly-Tree Inn ; and other . 

Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Hunted Down ; and other Re- 
printed Pieces, Cloth, 1.50 

The Life and Writings o^Cliarles 
Dickens, Cloth, 2.00 


Price of a set, in Black cloth, in 21 volumes $32.00 

“ “ Full sheep, Library style 42.50 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges 53.00 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges 58.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 63.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc 63.00 


GREEN CLOTH DUODECIMO EDITION. 

This is the “ People's Duodecimo Edition ,” in a new 
style of Binding, in Green Morocco Cloth, Bevelled 
Boards , Full Gilt descriptive hack , and Medallion Por- 
trait on sides in gilt, in Twenty-one handy volumes , 12 mo., 
fine paper, large clear type , and Two Hundred Illustra- 
tions on tinted paper. Price $40 a set: being the hand- 
somest and best edition ever published for the price. 


CHEAP PAPER COVER EDITION. 


Pickwick Papers, 35 

Nicholas Nickleby, 35 

Dombey and Sou, 35 

David Copperfield, 25 

Martin Chuzzlewit 35 

Barnaby Rudge 25 

Old Curiosity Shop, 25 

Oliver Twist, 25 

American Notes, 25 

Great Expectations, 25 

Hard Times,.. 25 

"’’ale of Two Cities, 25 

Somebody’s Luggage,. ...25 
Message from the Sea,. ...25 


Our Mutual Friend,. 35 

Bleak House, 35 

Little Dorrit 35 

Sketches by “ Boz,” 25 

Christmas Stories, 25 

The Haunted House, 25 

Uncommercial Traveller.25 
Wreck of Golden Mary,.. 25 
Tom Tiddler’s Ground, ..25 

A House to Let,.... 25 

Perils English Prisoners, 25 
Life of Joseph Grimaldi, .50 

Pic-Nic Papers, 50 

No Thoroughfare, 25 


Vhe Mystery of Edwin Drood. Dickens’ last w rk....25 
Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings ; and Mrs. Lirriper’s Legacy, .25 
Mugby Junction; aud Dr. Marigold's Prescriptions, ..25 

Huuted Down ; and other Reprinted Pieces, 25 

The Holly-Tree Inn ; and other Stories, 25 


NEW NATIONAL EDITION. 

This is the cheapest bound edition of the works of 
Charles Dickens, published, all his writings being con- 
tained in seven large octavo volumes , with a portrait of 
Charles Dickens, and other illustrations. 

Price of a set, in Bla»k cloth, in seven volumes... .$20. 00 

“ “ Full sheep, Library style 25.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 30.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc 30.00 


ILLUSTRATED DUODECIMO EDITION. 

Reduced in Price from $-2.00 to $1.50 a volume. 

This edition is printed on the finest paper, from large 
type, leaded, and contains all the original illustrations , 
600 in all, on tinted paper, from designs by Cruikshank, 
Phiz, Browne, Maclise, McLenan, and other artists. 

This is the only edition published that contains all the 
original illustrations , as selected by Mr. Charles Dickens. 
The following are each complete in two volumes. 

Our Mutual Friend, Cloth, $3.00 

Pickwick Papers, Cloth, 3.00 

Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 3.00 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 3.00 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 3.00 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 3.00 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 3.00 

Bleak House, Cloth, 3.00 

Sketches by “Boz,” Cloth, 3.00 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 3.00 

Martin Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 3.00 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 3.00 

Little Dorrit, Cloth, 3.00 

Dombey and Son, Cloth, 3.00 

The following are each complete in one volume. 

Great Expectations, Cloth. 1.50 

Dickens’ New Stories, Cloth, 1.50 

Mystery of Edwin Drood; and 

Master Humphrey’s Clock, Cloth, 1.50 

American Notes; and The Un- 
commercial Traveller, Cloth, 1.50 

Holly-Tree Inn; other Stories, ..Cloth, 1.50 

Hunted Down & other Pieces,. ...Cloth, 1.50 

Price of a set, in black cloth, in 34 vols. gilt backs $50.00 

“ “ Full sheep, Library style 68.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 100.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt back 100.00 


ILLUSTRATED OCTAVO EDITION. 


Reduced in Price from $2.50 to $1.75 a volume. 

This edition is printed from large type, double column, 
octavo page, each book being complete in one volume , the 
whole containing near Six Hundred Illustrations, printed 
on tinted paper, from designs by Cruikshank, Phiz , 
Browne, Maclise, McLenan, and other eminent artists. 


Our Mutual Friend, . Cloth, $1.75 

Pickwick Papers, Cloth. 1.75 

Nicholas Nickleby, Cloth, 1.75 

Great Expectations, Cloth, 1.75 

Lamplighter’s Story, Cloth, 1.75 

Oliver Twist, Cloth, 1.75 

Bleak House, Cloth, 1.75 

Little Dorrit, Cloth, 1.75 

Dombey and Son, Cloth, 1.75 

Sketches by “Boz,” Cloth, 1.75 

David Copperfield, Cloth, 1.75 

Barnaby Rudge, Cloth, 1.75 

Martin 'Chuzzlewit, Cloth, 1.75 

Old Curiosity Shop, Cloth, 1.75 

Christmas Stories, Cloth, 1.75 

Dickens’ New Stories, Cloth, 1.75 

A Tale of Two Cities, Cloth, 1.75 


American Notes and Pic-Nic Papers. .1.75 


Price of a set, in Black cloth, in 18 volumes $31.50 

“ “ Full sheep, Library style 40.00 

“ “ Half calf, sprinkled edges 48.00 

“ “ Half calf, marbled edges 54.00 

“ “ Half calf, antique 60.00 

“ “ Half calf, full gilt backs, etc.... 60.00 

The Life of Charles Dickens. By Dr. R. 
Shelton Mackenzie, with a full history of bis Life, 
his Uncollected Pieces, in Prose and Verse ; Personal 
Recollections and Anecdotes, etc. Price Two Dollars. 


John Jasper’s Secret. A Sequel to Charles 
Dickens’ “Mystery of Edwin Drood.” With 18 
Illustrations. Complete in one large duodecimo vol- 
ume. Price $2.00 in cloth. 


Either Edition of Charles Dickens’ Works will be sent to any one, Free of Transportation, on 
Receipt of Retail price, by T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa. 


T. B. PE TERSON & BR OT H ERS PUBLICATIONS 

books are teiit fre e of postage by us, on receipt of retail price , when not to be had of your Bookseller or News Agent. 


GEORGE LIPPARD’S WORKS. 


The Quaker City £1 50 

Paul Ardenheim 1 60 

Legends of the Ameri- 
can Revolution 1 60 

Blanche of Brandywine 1 50 
Mysteries of Florence. 1 00 
Above in cloth £2 each. 


The Empire City 75 

Memoirs of a Preacher — 75 

The Nazarene 75 

Washington and his Men. 75 

Legends of Mexico 50 

The Entranced 25 

Bank Director’s Son 25 


J. F. SMITH’S WORKS. 

The Usurer’s Victim; or I Adelaide Waldgrave; or, 
Thomas Balscomb 75 | Trials of a Governess. . .75 

BREWER’S (Lord lytton) NOVELS. 

The Roue 50 I Falkland 25 

The Oxonians 50 | The Courtier 25 

LIEBIG’S WORKS ON CHEMISTRY. 

Agricultural Chemistry . .25 I The Potato Disease, and 

Animal Chemistry 25 | how to prevent it 25 

Liebig’s Complete Works on Chemistry. Containing all 
of Professor Liebig’s writings, in cloth. Price £2.00. 

THE SHAKSPEARE NOVELS. 

Youth of Shakspeare.. £1 00 I Shakspeare and his 

The Secret Passion ... 1 00 | Friends 1 00 

The three above books are also bound in 1 vol. for £4 00 

SCOTT’S “ WAVERLEY NOVELS.” 

CHEAPEST EDITION IN THE WORLD. 


Ivan hoe 20 

Rob Roy .......20 

Guy Mannering 20 

The Antiquary...... 20 

Old Mortality 20 

Heart of Mid Lothian. . ..20 
Bride of Lammerjnoor... .20 

Waver ley 20 

Kenilworth 20 

The Pirate 20 

The Monastery ....20 

The Abbot 20 

The Fortunes of Nigel... .20 
Peverilof the Peak 20 


Quentin Durward 20 

The Fair Maid of Perth..20 

St. Ronan’s Well 20 

Red Gauntlet 20 

The Betrothed ..20 

The Talisman....... 20 

Woodstock. 20 

Highland v- idow, etc.... 20 

Annie of Geierstein 20 

Count Robert of Paris 20 

The Black Dwariand Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

Castle Dangerous, and 
Surgeon’s Daughter 20 


Above edition is complete in twenty-six volumes, price 
Twenty cents each, or Five Dollars for the complete set. 

A finer edition is also published of each of the above, 
price Fifty cents each, or Ten Dollars for a complete set. 
Moredun, a Tale of 1210. .50 I Scott’s Poetical Works.5 00 

Tales of a Grandfather. ..25 | Life of Scott, cloth 2.50 

THE “NEW NATIONAL EDITION.” 

This is the cheapestand be6t edition at the price, of the 
“ Waverley Novels” published in the world, all of them 
being contained in five large octavo volumes, with a por- 
trait of Sir Walter Scott and printed on the finest paper. 

Price of a set, in Black Cloth, in five volumes £15.00 

“ « “ Full Law Library style 17.50 

“ “ “ Half Calf, antique ..25.00 

“ “ “ Half Calf, full gilt back, etc 25.00 

The Complete Prose and Poetical Works of Sir Walter 
Scott are also published in ten volumes, bound in half 
calf, for £60.00 

CHARLES DICKENS’ WORKS. 

THE “NEW NATIONAL. EDITION.” 

This is the cheapest edition, bound, of the works of 
Charles Dickens, being in seven large octavo volumes. 
Price of a set, in Black Cloth, in seven volumes. .£20 00 

Price of a set, in Full Sheep, Library style 25 00 

Price of a set, in Half Calf, antique 30 00 

Price of a set in Hall Calf, full gilt backs, etc SO 00 

MILITARY NOVELS. 

With Illuminated Military Covers, in Colors. 

Three Guardsmen 75 

Guerilla Chief 75 

Twenty Years After 75 

Bragelonne, Son of Athos.75 
Wallace, Hero Scotlanu.l 00 
Forty-five Guardsmen. .1 00 
Tom Bowling’s Advent’s . 75 

Life of Robert Bruce 75 

The Gipsy Chief. 75 

Massacre of Glencoe 75 

Life of Guy Fawkes 75 

Child of Waterloo 75 

Advent’s of Ben Brace... 75 

Life of Jack Ariel.. 75 

The Conscript 1 60 

The Quaker Soldier....! 50 


Charles O’Malley 75 

Jack Hinton 75 

The Knight of Gwynne...75 

H arry Lorrequ 75 

Tom Burke of Ours. .....75 

Arthur O’Leary 75 

Con Cregan 75 

Kate O’Donoghue 75 

Horace Ttmpleton 75 

Davenport Dunn 75 

Following the Drum 50 

Valentine Vox 75 

Twin lieutenants 75 

Stories of Waterloo 75 

The Soldier’s Wife 75 

Jack Adam’s Adventures. 75 

RIDBELL’S MODEL ARCHITECT. 

Architectural Designs of Model Country Residences. 
By John Ridde l, Practical Architect. Illustrated with 
Twenty-two Full Page Front Elevations, colored, with 
Forty -four Plates of Ground Plans ; with plans and speci- 
fications and estimate of price. Price £ 15.00 a copv. 

CHRISTY & WHITE’S S0NGE00KS. 


Christy and Wood’s Com- 
plete Song Book, 10 

Melodeon Song Book 10 

Plantation Melodies 10 

Ethiopian Song Book.,...lU 


Serenader’s Song Book. . .10 
Christy and White’sCom- 
plete Ethiopian Melo- 
dies. Cloth £l 00 

Budworth’s Songs ,.10 


GOOD BOOKS at 75 CENTS EACH. 

Breitmann’s Party 75 

Breitmann In Church. ...75 
Breitmann About Town. .75 


Breitmann &b an Uhlan.. 75 
Breitmann In Europe.... 75 
Poppingthe Question... .75 
Roanoke; or, Utopia... .75 

The Beautiful Nun.. 75 

Banditti oftl e Prairie.. ..75 

Tom Racquet 75 

Salathiel .by Croly 75 

Leyton Hall 75 

Elsie’s Married Life 75 

Corinne.or Italy 75 

Aristocracy 75 

Inquisition in Spain 75 

Flirtationsin America. ...75 
The Coquette 75 


Mysteries oi Three Cities. 75 

Paul Periwinkle 76 

The Irish Sketch Book.. 75 

Whitehall ..75 

Ned Musgrave 75 

Genevra 75 

TheCrockof Gold 75 

The Twins and Heart.... 75 

Nothing to Say 75 

Father Clement .cloth .... 75 
do. paper... 70 

Miser’s Heir, pa. 60; clo.75 
New Hope ; f>r Rescue.. . .75 
Dicksns’ Short Stories. . . . 75 

The Pic-Nic Papers 75 

Dickens’ Holiday Stories. 75 
Countess of Rudolstadt.. .75 
The Red Court Farm 75 


Cyrilla; or, The Mysterious Engagement. B author of 
“ The Initials.” Paper cover, 75 cents; cloth, £1.75. 
The Brigand; or Demon of North. By Victor Hugo. . 75 

The Red Indians of Newfoundland. Illustrated 75 

Webster’sand Hayne’sSpeechesinReply to Col. Foote. 75 
Lives of Grant and Wilson. Paper 75 cts. ; cloth £1.00. 
Life of Gen. P. H. Sheridan. Cloth £1.00; paper 75 cts. 
Life of Prest. Andrew Johnson. Cloth £1 ; paper 75 cts 
Lives of Seymour and Blair. Paper 50 cts. ; cloth 75 eta 
Livesof U. S. Grant and Colfax. Paper75 cts.;cloth £1.0(1 

GOOD BOOKS at 50 CENTS EACH, 


Kate Kennedy. 

The Woman in Red 
Leah, the Forsaken... 
The Monk , by Lewis. 
Diary ofa Physician., 


.50 

.60 

.60 

.50 

.50 


Ella Stratford 50 

Josephine ..50 

Robert Oaklands 50 

Abednego, Money Lender 50 
Female Life in New York 60 

Agnes Grey 50 

Bell Brandon 50 

Beautiful French Girl. ...50 

Moreton Hall ........50 

Sybil Grey 50 

The Orphans and Caleb Field, 
Twelve Months of Matrimony. 


Jenny Ambrose 01 

Admiral’s Daughter 05 

The Emigrant Squire ,...50 

The Orphan Sisters'. 50 

Greatest Plague of Life.. 50 

TheTwoLovers 50 

Fortune Hunter 50 

Clifford and the Actress. .50 
Train’s Union Speeches. .50 

Romish Confessional 56 

Allieford 50 

Victims of Amusements. .50 
Ladies' Work Table Book. 50 

Life of Anton Prohst 50 

Life of Gen. McClellan... 50 

By Mrs! Oliphant 50 

ByEmilie F. Carlen..50 


Ryan’s Mysteriesof Love, Courtship, and Marriage ....50 

Father Tom and the Pope. Cloth75;orin paper 50 

Ladies’and Gentlemen’s Science of Etiquette 50 

Lardner’s One Thousand Ten Things Worth Knowing. 50 
Trial of the Assassins and Conspirators for the Murder 

of Abraham Lincoln. Cloth £1.50; or in paper SO 

The Great Impeachm out and Trialof President Andrew 
Johnson. Fine Cloth Edition £1.50 : or in paper 50 

GOOD BOOKS at 25 CENTS EACH. 


Mysteries of a Convent... 25 

The Deformed 25 

Two Prima Donnas 25 

Mysterious Marriage 25 

Jack Downing’s Letters. .25 

Rose Warrington 25 

Charles Rausford 25 

Body the Rover ;.25 

Abbey oilnnismoyle 25 

Gliddon’B Ancient Egypt. 25 
Life of Bishop Hughes. . .25 
Life of General Butler... .25 


The Sower’s Reward 25 

The Grey Woman 25 

Mysteriesof Bedlam 25 

Book of Ghost Stories. . . .25 

The Iron Cross 25 

The Ladies’ Etiquette.. . .25 
Philip in Search ofa Wile. 25 
Nobleman’s Daughter. . . .25 

The Courtier 25 

Rifle Shots 25 

Life of General Meade — 25 
G. F. Train & the Fenians. 25 


Aunt Margaret’s Trouble. By Chas. Dickens’ Daughter. 25 

The Iniquities and Barbarities Practiced at Rome 25 

Madison’s Exposition of Odd Fellowship .25 

Knowlson’s Complete Farrier, or Horse Doctor. ...... . 25 

Knowlson’s Complete Cow or Cattle Doctor 25 

The Compl* te Kitchen and Fruit Gardener 25 

The Complete Florist and Flower Gardener 25 

Comic Life of Billy Vidkins, with 32 Illustrations 25 

GOOD BOOKS at $1.00 EACH. 

Don Quixote and Sjancho Panza, £1.00; or in cloth, £1 75 

Whitefriarss or, the Days of Charles the Second I 00 

Petersons’ Complete Coin Book, with facsimiles of 
all the Coins in the World, and U. S. Mint value. . 1 00 

Income Tax List of Residents of Philadelphia I 00 

Childbirth. Its pains lessened and perils obviated. . 1 00 

Prof. Jullien’s Farewell Musical Album 1 00 

Southern Life.. 1 00 I Gen. Scott’s Portrait.. 1 00 

Tangarua, a Poem 1 00 | Henry Clay’s Portrait. 1 00 

FRANK FORRESTER’S BOOK. 

Frank Forrester’s Sporti: g Scenes and Characters. With 
numerous illustrations by Darley. Two vols. cloth, £4.00 

MILITARY AND ARMY BOOKS. 

U.S. J.ight Infantry Drill. 25 i El:s vorth’s Zouave Drill.25 
U. S. Government Infan- i lie soldier’s Companion. 2J 
try and Rifle Tactics... 25 | The Soldier’s Guide 25 

LECTURES AND OTHER BOOKS 

Preservation from Colds. 73 


Preservation of Sight. ...13 

Ladies Work Box 13 

Odd Fellowship Exposed. 13 
Sonsof Malta Exposed. ..13 
Life of Rev. John Mat£t.l3 
Dr. Berg on Jesuits 13 


Chemistry made Ease-. . 13 

Dr. Berg’s Answer to 
Archbishop Hughes. . . 13 

Train and Hughes 

Train on Slavery 10 


A/l * l g UU MV«“4V • # • • * • .*« - j 

Arthur’s lleceiptsfor Preserving Fruits, etc 1# 

TJ»e Political Lyrics of 1854, very scarce, and funny.... 13 


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